


Even in the Darkness

by TheCoolestAirbender



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Death, Drama, Emotional, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Poison, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Recovery, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCoolestAirbender/pseuds/TheCoolestAirbender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minerva McGonagall's life changes as she apparates to Middle-earth and meets her savior Gandalf the Grey. But will he be able to help the witch before Voldemort's unfinished spell takes over her body and soul?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An unexpected meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own everything but the plot. Sadly, it’s the other way around.  
> Warning: I changed a few … well, a lot of the events in LotR books and movies.

In the darkness of the forest, a scent of blood invaded Gandalf's nostrils. His soft footsteps echoed no more as he stood rooted to the spot. His own breathing was the only thing he heard, his blue eyes sharply wandered around. Blood froze in the veins of the grey wizard as he prepared for the quite possible duel. But there was only silence, no sound reached him.

Still, there was this  _feeling,_  gnawing him up from the inside. There was  _something_  he had to find.

All of a sudden, Gandalf felt a slight tingle of magic, causing a shiver to run down his spine. Someone definitely was nearby, someone very powerful and very  _dark_. The man found himself being led through the forest by his senses, with every step his own powers grew weaker, the flesh around his bones now felt like a burden.

Finally, his eyes fell upon that  _something_  he had to find. It was a tall woman, lying surrounded by the crown of golden autumn leaves. Her stern looking pale face shimmered under the sunlight, raven locks fell upon it in soft waves. She lay peacefully as red colour soaked into her torn robes, deep cuts shone upon her body. A black dagger was deep in her abdomen, glowing in light green. Under the square glasses, her eyes were closed.

Gandalf's gaze wandered in search for her attacker, but nothing caught his eye. The one who had done this to her was nowhere to be seen. The wizard slowly sunk to his knees and gently, as if afraid to disturb her dreamless sleep, traced her soft face with his rough finger. The woman was breathing to his surprise, her chest was rising and falling regularly.

With strange hesitation, the fingers of the wizard wrapped around the dagger and pulled it out with one quick movement. Without thinking, he put it in his bag and scooped the fallen woman into his arms. If there was a way to save her, he would find it.

After a few moments, Gandalf heard Shadowfax's galloping and then his eyes caught the sight of the horse itself. There was no time for walking and wasting precious time.

Ten minutes later the wizard laid the woman on a soft bed while his own head swirled with dark thoughts. Most of the wounds that were bleeding before his eyes weren't that deep, except for the one that the dagger had left in her abdomen. It was taking a lot of her blood, the need to heal it was Gandalf's priority.

His fingers quickly worked on the buttons of her torn dress and he pulled it off along with the layers hid under. The woman was left in only her black undergarments, melting with her raven hair. Grey eyes fell upon four reddish scars, crossing her pale chest. They were obviously left from a magical spell, no weapon could bring harm like this. But there was no time to waste.

The man firmly pressed a white clean cloth to the wound, applying pressure to cut off the heavy flowing of liquid. Five minutes later he found himself failing miserably, the condition of the injury was even worse. Somehow the bleeding could not be ended, blood freely streamed from the cut.

Gandalf took his last opportunity to help the woman and tightly wrapped a bandage around her waist, adding pressure to the injury. His hand wandered in a bag until it found a vile of blood-replenishing potion. He gently forced it down her throat and felt her veins slowly being filled up again. If this wouldn't help her, there would be nothing he could do.

With a lighter heart, the grey wizard took care of her smaller cuts and bruises. Another time he used the bandage, covering the deep cut on her right arm. That should help the woman for the mean time.

With last glance at her face, Gandalf unbuckled his belt and pulled the grey robe of his off. With steady hands, he pulled the undershirt over his silver head and dressed the female in it, shifting her body to a more comfortable position. After he had pulled on the robe again, his gentle hands covered her with warm, white blanket. Only one thought swirled in his head as he left the room.

_Who was this mysterious woman?_

* * *

_Darkness was everywhere, no light dared to disturb it even a little. A soft wind was blowing and gently stirring the branches of lonely trees, making them rumble silently. No sound was heard around, no animals or birds could be seen. There were none here._

_Minerva began walking slowly, without any sound as if afraid of what would happen if she broke the enveloping silence. Her emerald eyes caught strange, obscure glowing up ahead; it chilled her blood. Shivers ran down her spine as her pace quickened until she found herself running from the light._

_The woman stumbled over a tree root and fell over, only to rise again and turn around. There was something, or rather someone walking on the fallen leaves._

" _Minerva…"_

_The witch heard her name being called over and over again as she slowly backed away. Only to hit someone's chest and feel hands sneaking around her waist._

" _Join me…"_

_Minerva turned around in the tight grip to see a silver skull of once so familiar face._

With a jump, Minerva found herself crying, cold tears stung her emerald irises. Black locks were slick with sweat and fell upon her frightened face. Rather startled by the nightmare, the woman calmed down a bit, trying to slow down the mad beat in her chest.

Warm air left and filled her lungs as the witch tried to breathe, tiny drops fell on the white blanket as she wept. Minutes had passed as she finally reached to wipe the tears from her porcelain skin. Restoring composure, Minerva looked around for her glasses for all her eyes met was a fuzz.

Her slender fingers wrapped around her square helpers as her body was set aflame. Her back hit the mattress once again as her eyes closed without command. Fingers tangled in white bed sheets, clutching them tightly in the unbearable pain. Gasping for air, Minerva heard someone's heavy steps nearing with every second.

"Touch me… And you're d-dead," words left her mouth as she pressed her wooden wand at that someone's throat.

"I'm here with no intentions of harm," deep, calming voice said in defense. "Let me look at your wound."

"Get away from me!"

With a thud, the wand hit the ground as Minerva leaped at the stranger with the last bit of her strength. She straddled his quite bigger body and pinned his arms above his head. Her eyes couldn't clearly pick out his features, but he definitely had a grey beard and silver mane of hair.

"Where is h-he?" hissed the witch coldly through gritted from agony teeth.

"Who?" The man tried to break free from her grip. "What are you talking about?"

"Did you kill him?! Tell me where he is if you don't want to leave this world!"

Minerva clutched his wrists harder as she felt like passing out from the hell she was in. Her irises could not possibly concentrate anymore, blackness swarmed in her already foggy vision.

"I-I am going to kill y-you…"

Her voice already lost all of its coldness, the words that had left her mouth were but a whisper. Cold sweat shone on her even paler face as she fought against her will.

"No, not now you aren't," the silver-haired stranger said, his fingers wrapping around her own. "Perhaps later."

Minerva only looked at his face as her pain slowly diminished. After it reduced, her energy was gone with it, too. Emerald eyes closed, weariness took over and her body collapsed on the chest of the man.

"I despise you…" she still managed to whisper against his ear.

"I am charmed by you, too," he remarked.

With those words he sat up, her fragile body in his arms. Soft fingers forced her chin upwards; a shiver ran down Minerva's spine as a pair of eyes locked with her own, seeing right through her.

"Are you going to kill me?" the woman inquired casually.

"No, I am going to give you a hand with your wounds," he acknowledged.

"When whatever you did to me wears off, I am going to pull you apart… With my bare hands," a threatening whisper left her mouth.

"Before you do pull me apart, I am going to help you." The stranger put one hand on her eyes. "Calm you need be for that."

The woman drifted off on his shoulder and for that Gandalf felt glad. There could be no way she would let him touch her when she's conscious.

The grip around her waist tightened and the wizard stood up with a heavy sigh. He carried the woman to the bed where he had last left her, and gently laid her body on it. Her skin looked even paler than before, it had lost most of its colour. With a caring hand Gandalf touched her forehead, but the contact only caused his worry to increase. The woman was burning with high fever.

Leaving the room, the grey wizard fetched a wet cloth, a glass of cool water and a light duvet. He left water on the bedside table while the cloth rested on her burning forehead. Gandalf pulled his nightshirt away from her body for it to cool down, and took a look at her wound. It looked quite alright, there was no blood on the white bandage, but he would have to check up on it later. The man covered the slim figure of the woman with the duvet and slumped on an armchair beside the bed. That was all he could do for the moment.

Still, his eyes rested upon her milky white skin, her raven locks and fevered face. This woman was strange. Traces of age lingered on her features, but they were full of sorrow and pain. She had suffered before. The wizard could tell that by how she attacked him for the need to save someone. And the coldness in her voice. Oh, how cold it had sounded as it was directed at him, the harshness of it told him that this woman was not one to mess with.

And so the thoughts of her went on and on in his head as his blue eyes read the depths of her soul.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall opened her irises once again, only to be met with the same distorted image of a wall. She sat up slowly, the duvet fell from her bare shoulders. The woman did not know what to think as she found herself in only undergarments, in other words - almost naked. But her rage disappeared as her eyes fell upon a white bandage wrapped around her waist. That someone who she attacked had tried to save her?

Still, Minerva attentively glanced around, not quite aware of her surroundings. Her square glasses found the place on the bridge of her nose where they belonged. Finally, her sight came back and the first thing she noticed was a pile of neatly folded clothes lying on the bedside table.

Silently as ever the witch rose on her feet and took a piece of clothing from the top of the pile. After unfolding, she found brown fitting pants with silver belt.  _Pants … really?_ Minerva hadn't worn clothing like that since she went to Hogwarts herself. And it was a long time ago… a  _very_  long time ago. But there was no other choice but to wear the thing.

With a sigh, Minerva pulled the pants on and buckled them with the belt. Without another thought the woman pulled the other clothes on, put her hair in a loose bun and cautiously went to the door before her. Her eyes caught the reflection of herself in a mirror.

She looked strange with these clothes on, even different. The witch was not accustomed to attire like this, she had worn robes for the most of her life. Still, the black shirt quite fitted her, and the knee length boots were rather comfortable.

Without sound door closed behind her back as Minerva left the room. It only took five steps for the witch to draw her wand out and swiftly point it at…  _Albus?_

_I must be imagining things_ , thoughts swarm in her empty head, but she still lowered her weapon. Blue eyes, silver hair, grey beard and robes. Now that's one of a coincidence.

_But was it fortune or disaster?_

"Did you come here with the intention to kill me? Or specifically, pull me apart with your bare hands?" the man inquired in a lightly taunting manner.

Minerva could only breathe, examining the man before her. Words tried to escape from inside but only turned into a dry gulp, which caused the grey stranger to rise an eyebrow at her.

Suddenly, the witch crossed her arms on her chest and began in ice cold tone, "With that attitude I just might."

For a brief second surprise ran across the man's face, but it was not lost for Minerva. "Why so amazed? Did you not think I could talk? Or are you taken aback by my answer?"

This time the grey stranger was the one who stood speechless for a minute. "Neither. I was just merely surprised at how harshly you speak to me."

"What else do you expect? I know nothing of who you are, nor where I am." The witch frowned slightly. "Are you a death eater?" A spark of warning flickered in her emerald eyes as she gripped her wand tighter.

The man thought for a while but then replied, "I am not aware of that name, but I am certainly not a death eater."

"Then why did you try to attack me?" Minerva demanded.

"For all I remember, you were the one who tackled me on the ground and threatened to kill me. Was that not what happened?" he answered bluntly.

The witch was dead silent.  _What kind of death eater would help her, heal her and talk so strangely politely? And he did tell her he meant no harm. Was he truly not foe but an ally?_

"I-I own you an apology…" the woman stammered, seemingly out of character.

"Gandalf," the man filled her pause. "Gandalf the Grey."

"Gandalf," Minerva repeated. "Forgive me. I did not mean to threat—"

"No apology is in need... I'm sorry, but I don't think I caught your name?" Gandalf interrupted her with a calm smile.

"Minerva McGonagall."

"Well then, Minerva McGonagall, this might be the beginning of our unlikely friendship." The man beamed at her sincerely.

Gandalf stretched his hand before the woman and waited for her to react. After a second of glancing, Minerva put her hand in his palm and locked her emerald eyes with his sapphire orbs.

"It might just be." The witch smiled as the man softly kissed her hand.


	2. Memories of Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minerva reflects on what happened before she met Gandalf...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own everything but the plot. Sadly, it’s the other way around.  
> Warning: I changed a few … well, a lot of the events in LotR books and movies.  
> ENJOY!

The soup Minerva ate was cold, it tasted quite bitter and salty. Gandalf was not one of the best cooks. Still, both of them sat in the small kitchen by the table and ate his prepared meal. Silence hung in the air as blue eyes lingered on her raven hair and a small, unintentional smile spread on the face of the man.

Rather hungry after sleeping all this time, the woman finished her plate within a minute and finally looked up to see the man staring at her quite strangely. As the realization hit Gandalf that he had been caught, he cleared his throat awkwardly and began a conversation.

"Where are you from, my dear?" he inquired politely.

"Scotland," Minerva answered with confusion in her voice. "Aren't we here now?"

"I'm afraid I am not familiar with Scotland. We're in Middle-earth, specifically, in the Shire."

The witch sat silent for a moment, thinking of why apparition would bring her into another world. How was it called again? Oh yes, Middle-earth… _But why now and why her?_

Noticing Minerva's distress and discomposure, Gandalf changed the subject to an easier one. "Are you a witch? I can definitely sense magic in you."

"Yes. I was a teacher in a magic school before," the woman explained. "How about you?"

"I'm also a wizard. One of the five in this realm… Well, six." He smiled. "But one question haunts me from the day I found you."

"What is it?"

"How did you get here? And why were you injured so, my lady?" Concern crossed his old face.

"I-I fought in a war," Minerva began slowly. "Then I was captured when looking for one of my students."

Gandalf looked at her with compassion, but anticipation clearly shone in his crystal eyes. With a sigh, the witch shifted in her chair and looked him in the eye. "I made a mistake."

*Flashback*

_Minerva ran as fast as she could, her legs carried her towards the Forbidden forest. Avoiding and dogging powerful spells and curses going her way she ran across the battlefield, until reaching the beginning of the dark wood. Her raven hair came loose from her bun, few curls fell upon her shining face. Green robes were torn beyond repair, dark red soaked into them after fighting the most dangerous of death eaters. Her expression was a fearless one, her emerald eyes shone with burning rage while blood streamed down her cut cheek._

_Bodies of dead students who she knew from their first year lay on the cold ground. Her irises watered with tears of pain, but none of them rolled down her face. She wasn't going to cry._

_Finally, Minerva reached the depths of the Forbidden forest and her eyes recognized Voldemort, standing with Bellatrix Lestrange. Snake like whispering revealed that the both of them were talking, the woman beside him laughed._

_The nearby oak was the cover the witch took, its width shielding her from unfriendly eyes. With stone cold face, she gripped her wand tighter and heard herself being called._

" _So you came, Minerva," Tom Riddle greeted her in a taunting manner._

_With a step, the witch was out of her concealment, facing her enemy face to face. Without any word a jet of red light met green and the duel began. Spell after spell Minerva called, dodging incoming attacks with the grace of her animagus form. That was until she reacted too late and was hit by Bellatrix's curse._

_Her back hit the hard ground and a groan of pain escaped past her lips. The woman tried to get up but couldn't. She was half petrified._

" _Where is he?!" she demanded, waiting for an answer._

" _I don't have him," Tom stated, now standing beside her. "But I do have you."_

" _Why?" Minerva hissed. "Why would you need me?"_

_The dark lord was silent for a moment. "Do you recall, Minerva, when I fell in love with you all those years ago?"_

_He paused but the answer did not reach him. "But you never returned my feelings. But now… you don't have a choice but to obey."_

" _Never," she stated. "Never will I obey you."_

" _What a shame," Voldemort whispered. "With a simple spell you will be under my control… Then you will get the boy for me!"_

_With those words, he raised her body into the air and called for Bellatrix to come. The death eater laughed and menaced with a silver knife._

" _If you'll try to escape, I will enjoy it." She smiled._

_The witch did try to break free, but Voldemort was too powerful for her, his spell holding her in place. Suddenly, Minerva felt breath taking pain ripping through her whole body, leaving her gasping for air. Her vision was fading, darkness spun in her mind. The only thing the woman could do was to scream as the blood in her veins boiled. But she didn't. She wouldn't let that monster call her weak and defenseless._

_She fought against the dark lord's spell and the pain she endured, fighting to stay conscious. Her eyes momentarily flamed in red and the pair of her enemies flew few feet away from her. Minerva dropped on the ground and concentrated her tired mind on apparating. Without any reason she thought of Albus and was gone out of the Forbidden forest. The last thing her eyes focused on was a black dagger sticking out of her abdomen._

_*End of flashback*_

"Then you found me," Minerva finished her story.

Gandalf was silent, thinking of everything she had just said. "This explains your wounds… And why you attacked me," he said with calm expression, more to himself than her.

"The knife was poisonous," the witch stated. "I can feel the poison of it inside me."

"I know… But I'm afraid I don't have the antidote for it. Neither do I know how to make it." The wizard covered her hand with his own. "But I will find a way to help you, Minerva."

Their eyes locked together and Minerva couldn't help but smile a bit. Gandalf returned her smile and they sat still for a moment. Well, until the witch yawned, indicating that she was tired.

"You should rest," the man remarked.

"No, I'm alright. I'm not weary at all."

The wizard looked at her for a brief moment and smiled. "If you say so. I'll go find a book about poison… I know it's somewhere in here."

Minerva nodded and he left her alone with her thoughts. To her surprise, weariness washed over her and she yawned one last time before laying her head on the table. Within a moment she drifted off, tiredness taking over completely.

When Gandalf finally did come back with a book in his hand, a silent chuckle escaped his lips. This woman was stubborn. She wouldn't even admit that she was tired, rather staying up until sleep takes over completely.

With a sigh, the wizard put the book on the table, gently scooped the woman into his arms and left the small kitchen. He carried her to her room where he softly laid her on the bed, taking off her glasses and boots. The light duvet covered her body and Gandalf left her room, a smile of amusement crossing his face.

* * *

" _Albus," Minerva whispered through tears, "please don't leave me…"_

_The woman held his hand softly, his head on her lap while the cold rain poured from above. The tears rolling down her white cheeks mixed with pure crystal rain drops and fell on Albus' bleeding body. He was breathing heavily, slower and slower with every minute. They both knew that this was the end. The end of the great Albus Dumbledore._

" _I will always be with you, Minerva. In here…" With his weak black hand, he pointed to the spot on his chest where his dying heart was._

_The freezing rain soaked them both to the bone, but neither of them felt it. Albus' heart's beating was the only thing the woman was concentrated on. She almost couldn't feel it._

" _I will miss your stubborn temper… and our intriguing chess matches. Even if you had always won." He chuckled and touched Minerva's cheek. "I love you, my dear. I always had." The man smiled and she returned it, but it quickly faded when he started coughing._

" _I love you, too," she whispered._

_Albus' blue eyes found Minerva's green ones and a smile appeared on his face for the last time. After that, his hand slowly dropped in his lap and he moved no more._

The second dream this night. Minerva sighed wearily, tired from the same nightmares every night with Albus found dead or dying in her arms, confessing his love for her. She still hadn't forgotten how much she loved him. But it was just a distant past.

The witch sat up, a thought of fresh air in her mind. A candle lit up beside her as she thought how dark it was in here. Minerva stared at it in surprise, until understanding that something was wrong.  _She never had had powers like that._

Pushing her thoughts aside, the woman pulled on her boots that were lying beside the bed. Once again she put on her glasses, brushed her hair and put them in a loose bun. There was absolutely no reason to look as strict as always.

The witch yawned and lazily walked into the dark hall, leaving the door open. Without any sound Minerva made her way to the front door until murmurs from Gandalf's room reached her ears. With little hesitation she listened closely but heard only one word.

" _Galadriel…"_

Her heart froze at that sound. That definitely was a name of a woman.

With more effort than the witch would have liked, she slipped down the corridor. Gandalf's life was none of her business.

In heist, she wrote a note on a blank piece of paper and left it on a table beside the door. Old brown cloak found a place on her shoulders, a hood covered her raven head. With empty head and heavy heart Minerva left the house, heavy rain soaking her immediately. Turning into her animagus form, a grey tabby cat, the witch flew across the green fields, reminding so of her homeland. The full moon shone upon tall trees as it ran through the woods while threatening thunder clapped above.

As the cat reached the end of the forest it turned back into Minerva.

Dark trees surrounded wide, crystal clear lake that reflected the moonlight of the night. Small raindrops disturbed the water's surface, creating round circles of waves.

Under a not too tall tree was where the woman sat down, a sigh escaping past her lips. The cold rain still reached her through thick foliage and she pulled out her wooden wand. A wave of it and rain could touch her no more, hitting the shield around.

Minerva drew her knees to her dry chest and laid her chin on the top.  _Poison_. That was the thing that sliced her mind into pieces. There was no antidote. In other words, no chances of life.

But then again, she didn't truly live. Not even now, resting in another world. Her movements had become half automatic after Albus' death, her life had lost its once so bright spark. Peace was never in her life. Since childhood the witch had suffered, had fought two different wars… But that was in the past, wasn't it?

Everything was different now. Minerva met Gandalf, her savior, who was like a gift sent from Gods. But was it good that he looked like Albus? His personality was almost the same. Wise, intelligent, polite, brave, noble… This wasn't right. How would she forget about  _him_  when this man was by her side?

With a shivering sigh, the witch pushed all of her thoughts aside. There was no need to think about that just now.

Emerald eyes lazily drifted across the silver lake as the wind rustled the golden leaves above. It had stopped raining. Sun was already rising, the sky above was the colour of dark red. It was time to head back.

Minerva rose on her legs gracefully, stretching her freezing arms. With a yawn, she began her journey back; her head as clear as the lake behind her. But nothing went as smoothly as expected.

The witch froze as a whisper reached her ears. It had no meaning for it spoke in a different language. The only thing she could pick out was her name. It was loud and clear.

Fear shone in emerald irises as the woman cautiously turned around. But nothing extraordinary met her gaze, only the same, burning from the rising sun lake. Whispers still reached her and she found herself marching towards the water. Without thinking much, Minerva dipped her fingers into the pool of water and waited. But for what?

With a gasp, the witch flew backwards on the ground as the lake froze under her hands. Now all of it was covered with ice.  _What was happening?_

Catching her breath, the woman waited for the astonishment to wear off. It's just like with that candle that light up from a single thought. But this time she did not think about ice. She thought about the voice ringing from the depths of the pond.

Minerva cautiously glanced around. She could only pray that no one saw what she did. Without thinking much she rose and stepped onto the frozen lake. Slowly, every step as light as a feather so not to crack the layer of ice, the witch made her way toward the middle of the frozen pool. The voice was now louder than ever, hissing incomprehensible words into her ear.

The woman stood still, eyes glazed to the ice. Unfamiliar face flickered before her eyes as the surface cracked under her legs. There was no time to run as she fell into the freezing water, an unintentional gasp escaping her.

Minerva pushed herself upward until her irises fell upon a body in the depth of the lake. A hand was reaching for her.

Without any thoughts at all, the witch let her body sink deeper, her pale hand reaching back to that somebody deep down. Her fingers wrapped around his arm, trying to swim back to the surface.

Minerva's eyes widened as bony fingers caught her in deadly grip and pulled her to the depths with him. There was nothing she could do but to let herself be dragged to her death.

* * *

When Gandalf finally woke up, Minerva had been gone for an hour already. He got out of bed, pulled his robes on and left his room with a yawn. Not finding the woman he was looking for, his worry increased in a moment. She wasn't in her room, nor in the kitchen, nor anywhere in the household.

With concern gripping his old heart, the wizard went to the green front door, but only to find a note. He read the words it said:

_Dear Gandalf,_

_I went for a walk, I should be back by sunrise. If I'm not, don't worry, I'm just late._

_Truly yours,_

_Minerva_

The man caught himself smiling at the neatly written note and shook his head. He was acting strangely around this woman. Even if she wasn't by his side.

With a sigh, the wizard put the note into his pocket and looked outside through the window. His mind was still occupied by the dream he had.

_Gandalf sat in a dark cave, with his hands and legs chained together. In the other side of the room, Minerva laid down on the cold ground, her eyes closed and a strand of hair on her white face. She didn't move, but the wizard knew that she was still alive and he had to save her._

" _Let her go, Witch king!" The man shouted to the nazgul leader, who was standing near the woman._

" _And what will you do wizard?" He laughed. "Sauron wants her dead because she is the only one who can defeat him." He looked at the woman and raised his sword._

" _No, don't!" Gandalf shouted, trying to break free. "Take me instead!"_

" _Oh, I will… But only when I am done with her!"_

_With those words, Witch king's flaming sword was in Minerva's chest. She opened her eyes in shock, gasped and turned her head at the wizard. With tears in her eyes, she locked her irises with his grey ones, relief shining in them. After that, she moved no more._

_Gandalf's tears were dropping on cave's cold floor while the nazgul cleaned his bloody sword._

" _It's your turn, old man!"_

_The Witch king went to the wizard with his killing instrument, but as he was about to take his life away, fell dead on the ground. Bright light filled the room and Gandalf's chains broke into pieces._

" _You're too late, Galadriel!" He crawled to Minerva and cradled her cold body. "Too late…"_

With a frown, Gandalf raised his eyes to meet the first light of the new day.

"She should be back soon," he whispered to himself.


	3. Friend or Foe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minerva meets another man who is willing to help her. But how will Gandalf react when he finally realizes who it is?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own everything but the plot. Sadly, it’s the other way around.  
> Warning: I changed a few… well, a lot of the events in LotR books and movies.  
> Enjoy!! :3

Minerva slipped inside the small house and closed the green door behind her. With a sigh, she crossed the hallway, her eyes falling upon the fellow wizard she was hoping to see.

Gandalf was sleeping, or it looked like he was. The man was lying sprawled on a couch, a book on his chest. But his grey eyes were open. Yet somehow his irises were unseeing.

The woman cautiously slipped to stand beside the red sofa, wonder crossing her pale face. She slowly leaned forward, her hand hovering above the wizard's ashen crystals. With a gasp, Minerva flew backwards as Gandalf suddenly jumped from his sleep, the book hitting the ground with a thud.

The witch herself stumbled over a leg of the table, a groan escaped her lips as she landed flat on the floor. Rather guilty looking, the wizard quickly gathered himself and rose to his feet. Maybe a little too quickly.

Gandalf tumbled on the woman under him, stopping the fall just before the impact. His right arm supported his weight while the left one hit Minerva's right lower thigh. Impossible to suppress wail left her, causing the man to leap straight upward, abashment clearly shining in his eyes.

"That's a very … warm greeting," the woman breathed out.

"Does it hurt?" the man requested, touching her leg once again.

A soft moan escaped her in return. "Could you please get your hand off of my thigh?" the witch growled.

"I apologize, my dear. I am only worried about your current condition." Gandalf furrowed his eyebrows.

"My current condition?" Minerva inquired as the wizard stood up, reaching for her.

The man helped her up and they now stood face to face, her hands still tangled with his.

Their eyes met for a brief moment and Gandalf finally let go of her soft fingers. "Well, the last time I checked, your leg was in a rather good shape."

The woman shot a surprised look at him. "The last time you checked?" Her eyebrows rose in a questioning manner.

"No, not the last time I checked… But in a way, yes, the last time I checked on you… No, the last time… The  _only_  time I ascertained—," Gandalf tried to explain, but was cut off by an odd reaction from the one before him.

A tiny grin flashed on Minerva's face as she listened to his babbling, an unmasked spark in her forest green eyes. An unintentional smile softened his own expression; the trail of thoughts was already lost as he opened his mouth to speak.

"It's just a little bruise. Nothing to cause your worry to increase," the witch explained with a sigh. "Maybe except for how I got it."

"Did  _he_  do this to you?" Gandalf demanded in quite changed tone. "Did he touch you? I swear to Eru Ilúvatar if he did—"

"Who are you talking about?" Minerva touched his clenched in anger hand. "Nobody touched me."

"That  _traitor…_ Saruman. You're wearing  _his_  cloak," the wizard stated. His ashen eyes flickered with the flame of poorly covered rage. "I'll find him and-"

"Saruman saved my life," Minerva cut him off calmly.

There was complete silence in the room.

"He saved your life," Gandalf repeated. "He saved you." With once again changed expression he sunk down on the lounge.

"He did."

The man only felt the sofa shift from her weight as she sat down beside him. "Is that really such a horrible thing? Would it make you happier if he would have just let me die?" she murmured, her cold gaze directed at the ground.

"No."

It was his wholehearted answer.

"No," he repeated.

"Then what is it?" Minerva asked for his sake more than hers.

"Saruman betrayed  _me_ … He sold us all." Gandalf turned his head to look at her. "And I thought he would try to harm you, or even kill you…"

"I guess I'm just lucky."

The sarcasm in her voice was undeniable.

With a sigh, the man finally requested for an explanation. "Are you going to tell me where were you? Or will I have to use my secret powers?"

Minerva rolled her eyes at that, a chuckle rumbled through his chest. "I was sitting by a lake."

_*Flashback*_

_Before Minerva could be dragged to her death, she was caught in someone's tight embrace. Her lifeless body was pulled up back to surface, but breathe again she dared not. Strong arms lifted her and carried back to the tree where she had first taken her rest._

_When cool air finally did hit her lungs, her emerald eyes fluttered open in response. Cold fingers lay still on her cheek._

" _How are you feeling?"_

_Soothing words echoed in her ears as she tried to concentrate her gaze on the person above her._

" _Breathing," Minerva replied._

" _I'll help you up."_

_The witch now definitely knew that this someone was a man. His arms wrapped around her form and helped her sit up, her back leaning on the tree. Minerva's own hand rose to her face, only to wonder about it in a searching manner._

_Before any word could escape her, the man carefully placed her glasses on the bridge of her nose._

" _That's better, isn't it?"_

_The smile on his face was warm, the woman noticed. His appearance was much like Gandalf's, except for the lofty posture. Long white hair and beard, with black strands at the roots. Snowy robes were upon his shoulders, silver patterns embroidered at the whole length. His attire clung to his skin, revealing that he indeed dived into the freezing water._

_But she only saw his shining grey eyes._

" _It is," the woman finally answered. "Thank you."_

_The man waved his hand in dismissal. "It is nothing, my lady. I'm just glad I was there to help you."_

_The corners of her mouth twitched upward at his response. "Who are you?"_

" _Saruman the White, the head wizard of Middle Earth," he answered softly. "And your name?"_

" _Minerva McGonagall."_

_Saruman thought for a moment. "What a strange name … From where are you, exactly?"_

" _Scotland," the woman acknowledged but added another piece of information a moment after. "I'm not from Middle Earth, but I am staying in the Shire."_

_The man opened his mouth to answer but then slammed it shut as he noticed a shiver running down her body. Without hesitation, he picked his dry cloak from the ground and wrapped her freezing form in it._

_In return, Minerva whispered something he could not quite catch. But that resulted in the feeling of warmth and dry clothes on his body._

" _You're a witch?" Saruman inquired, but it rather sounded like a statement._

" _I am." Was her strange response._

_The wizard shifted on the grass. "Is everything alright? Does anything hurt?"_

" _Thank you for asking, but everything is fine." Minerva looked at the blue sky. "What time is it?"_

" _Sunrise."_

" _I think I should be heading back. I'm late," she mumbled._

_With Saruman's help the witch stood up, and his fingers fixed the cloak upon her shoulders._

" _I will escort you back to the Shire, if you do not mind?" He smiled a little._

" _Of course."_

_Both of them strode through the forest together, silence scattered by their little chats of the wizards in her world. They rather quickly reached their destination, green fields could be seen before them._

" _I think we are near enough the Shire that you could go alone."_

_Saruman stopped and turned to look at Minerva._

" _I should give the cloak back to you." Her hands rose to take it off._

" _No, please don't." The man covered her fingers with his own. "This shall be the reason for us to meet again."_

_Their eyes locked for a single moment and he kissed her hand softly._

" _Good luck to you, Minerva McGonagall. May we meet again," Saruman remarked._

_He turned her in the direction of the Shire and leaned to her ear. "Tell Gandalf I send my best regards."_

_With last whisper he was gone. Minerva turned back to ask how he knew, but only saw the falling leaves from golden trees._

_*End of Flashback*_

"My best regards," Gandalf repeated and snorted afterwards. "I know just the place where he should put his regards."

Minerva rolled her eyes and rose to her feet, stretching her arms. "Did you like my story?" she inquired casually.

Her feet carried her to the small window, through which light shone brightly. She leaned on the windowsill and gazed at Gandalf once again.

"I apologize." He sighed, turning sideways to look at her.

"For what?" Her eyebrow twitched upwards.

"My anger."

"I perfectly understand." Minerva smiled a bit. "I was betrayed not once and I would not like you to befriend my traitors."

"That's not rather comforting, you know." Gandalf stood up.

"It's not supposed to be." The woman looked at him, sadness shining in her eyes.

The man felt his heart freeze as he watched the last drop of happiness disappear from her suffering irises. He knew he had to change the subject.

"What about chess?" he asked, striding to pick up a box from the table nearby.

Minerva shifted in her place. "What about them?"

"Do you play?"

He set the board on the coffee table and looked at her invitingly. Minerva hesitated for a moment but left the windowsill to sit across the wizard himself.

"I have not played it in a long time. A  _very_  long time," she confessed.

_Since his death,_ her mind screamed, but the witch took control of herself once again.

"Nothing to worry about, my dear. I am not that skillful at chess."

Gandalf smiled and saw a twinkle appear in her emerald irises.

"What am I going to do, Gandalf?" Minerva asked, looking into his ashen eyes.

"What are  _we_  going to do," he corrected softly. "I found you, and that means that I am not letting any harm come your way until you get back to your own world."

"A rather interesting proposition, you know." She pushed her chess figure forward.

The wizard looked at the board for a moment. "It's supposed to be," he added. "I will take care of you and keep you safe … That is why you are coming with me to Rivendell."

"Why?" Minerva required.

"Because I am going there," he answered bluntly.

"No." The witch sighed. "Why do you even want to take care of me?"

Gandalf thought for a long moment before giving his answer. "Because you, Minerva McGonagall, have  _enchanted_  me."

His words caused her to raise her head to meet his gaze. Her expression was too smooth to read, but the twinkle in her eyes was undeniable.

* * *

"I almost forgot to ask you something."

Minerva picked up her cup of tea from the wooden table. Both of them were sitting on armchairs by the fire, their chess match long over. The spark in her irises revealed who the winner this time was.

"What is it?" Gandalf requested with calm smile softening his features.

"Do you always sleep with your eyes open?" Minerva looked at him with interest.

"I do. I had used to sleep like that to stay alerted, but now it became a habit. A rather useful one, I must say," The wizard explained.

The witch did not answer, gazing into her tea cup silently. Taste of iron lingered on her tongue as her eyes froze on the threatening colour mixing with her beverage.

"Minerva?" Gandalf called her name out.

She only lowered the mug on the table and sat still.  _She had almost forgotten about it. Poison. They were still inside her._

Her hand rose to her shirt and she lifted it, along with her black tank top. Red. Her bandage was soaked in red.

The wizard almost let his own glass shatter on the ground as he saw what was happening. Without wasting any time, he rose to his feet and put the cup down, flying to his own room.

Minerva herself stood up as a sudden need to lie down hit her. But to walk to the couch was an impossible task. The witch was certain about that as she found her legs failing her, her knees hitting the floor.

Arms wrapped around her waist, and she was lifted up and laid on the sofa.

"Hold on, Minerva, I will help you," Gandalf said, lifting her shirt up and cutting the bandage in half.

Blood spilled on her clothes as his hand pressed her wound tightly, trying to stop the flow. Like the last time, this did not help. And the man did not believe that it would. It was just a try.

The wizard pulled out a new cloth and bandaged her bleeding body. With a sigh, he gave Minerva a blood-replenishing potion, which she took without hesitation.

"Well, that was not so bad," she breathed out.

Gandalf nodded a little at her attempt of humor. "You should not scare me like that. I'm an old man after all."

"Yes, you might die of heart attack … Or wet your pants. Either one."

The wizard smiled sadly at her, reading her like an open book. "I know you're in pain, my dear. You know that you don't have to suffer."

"Don't you dare," she hissed through gritted teeth. "I can cope with it myself."

"I know you can."

His fingers entwined with her own, and the slicing pain was gone. So was her energy.

"Promise me that you won't do that again." She turned her head to look at him.

There was silence.

"I won't promise you anything like that," he declined. "You should rest."

Gandalf stood up and Minerva turned her head to follow him. "Could you stay with me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Until I fall asleep."

"I had no intentions of leaving." He smiled reassuringly.

With that, he sat down on the edge of the sofa and covered her hands with his own. Sleep was already claiming her as her eyes closed, and she drifted off within a minute.

All she dreamed of was  _his_  calming eyes.

* * *

"Had a nice nap?"

Minerva's eyes fluttered open, hearing Gandalf's soothing voice. With a yawn, she sat straight up and stretched just like her feline form. The wizard was sitting in the same place as before, a small grin on his face.

"What time is it?"

"Well, I guess it is already evening," Gandalf answered. "We're leaving when the sun sets."

"Leaving?" Minerva raised an eyebrow. "Oh, right. I remember now."

"Should I get some clothes for you?" The wizard stood up.

"No, I can clean them."

A whispered spell and her clothes were fresh, no dirt or anything else on them.

"You have quite the power, my lady," Gandalf mused. "Impressive, when you think about it."

"That's just a basic spell, nothing difficult." A smile softened her features.

The man returned the beaming smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Better … Much better. Thank you for asking."

"I am really glad to hear that. Shall I get you a bag?" Gandalf requested.

"If you would."

With her words, the fellow wizard was gone from the living room, leaving the woman alone. Sighing, she got up and steadily walked to her room.

The sheets on the bed were messed up from her latest nightmare, faint light fell upon them through the small window. Minerva did adjust the coverlet to make the bed look more appropriate. She sat down on the edge and waited for Gandalf to come.

"Will this suit you?" He entered the room with a brown backpack in his hands.

"Of course."

"I'll wait for you outside, then."

The wizard once again left, and Minerva opened a drawer of the wooden wardrobe. There lay her green, torn robes, the silver knife and Saruman's cloak. With a sigh, she put the first two of mentioned things into the backpack. A wave of a wand and Minerva changed the colour of the snowy white cloak, dressing herself in it. It was quite big, but she took its warmth for her liking.

Finally, she fixed the glasses upon her nose and left the small room.

Gandalf met her outside, a white, magnificent looking horse by his side. "This is Shadowfax." The wizard patted its head. "He will carry us to Rivendell as quickly as he can."

Minerva only smiled, not finding any words to describe the beauty of this creature. The man helped her up after himself, and within a moment both of them were flying across the green fields of the Shire.


	4. Almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing but surprises wait for Minerva in the inn of the Prancing Pony. But how will she deal with them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own everything but the plot. Sadly, it’s the other way around.  
> Warning: I changed a few… well, a lot of the events in LotR books and movies.  
> MAJOR WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS QUITE A LOT OF VIOLENCE AND SLIGHT SEXUAL HARASSMENT! DON'T READ IF YOU'RE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THINGS LIKE THIS.

Darkness surrounded them when they finally reached the tall gates of Bree. The clear sky hung above their heads, stars shone in a silver light, crossing their long path. No clouds dared to disturb the pureness of the moon, hovering before Gandalf's silver eyes. His irises were wide open, occasionally glancing around cautiously, unlike Minerva's emerald ones.

The woman was sleeping peacefully, her head leaning on his firm shoulder. His caring arm was entwined around her waist, keeping her body close to his.

The gates of Bree were opened without any questions, letting both of them pass. They rode in all surrounding silence, the sign of the "Prancing Pony" was right before Gandalf's careful gaze. The man stopped Shadowfax and looked at Minerva's sleeping form.

A sigh escaped his lips as he finally came to the conclusion to wake her up. He felt awfully guilty for not stopping whole day straight, it was his fault that her rest would be disturbed. But she had to eat something.

"Minerva," Gandalf whispered gently, but only a murmur was the answer he got in return.

The man was about to try again when the door of the inn burst open, and his irises fell upon the small hobbit standing in the doorway. "Mister Butterbur!" the boy called, throwing the door open all the way.

"What is it, Nob?" came the fast-paced answer.

A short, fat, red-faced man came into Gandalf's view, a gasp erupting from his chest. "Gandalf!" he almost shrieked out. "I-I…" he stuttered for a while and before anyone could interrupt, collapsed on the ground.

Minerva jumped from her sleep as the hobbit called out his master's name. Her hand found her wand and in one sudden movement she pointed it at the boy. Her eyes only saw all of the colour drain from his frightened face.

"Calm down," Gandalf whispered behind her. "Just a friendly meeting."

He jumped off of his white horse and strode to the man lying on the ground. Quite a hard blow to his face caused the man to jump up in alarm.

"I guess you are so afraid of my sight because you have forgotten about the letter," the wizard stated coldly.

"I- I didn't mean to. There was so much to do that I completely forgot! But they were here! The four hobbits…"

"Are they alright?" Gandalf asked, looking him dead in the eye.

"Yes, yes! They are! They left this morning with Strider!" the man answered as deftly as he could.

The wizard sighed peacefully and helped his friend to stand up, a smile on his weary face. Gandalf crushed the other man in an embrace, a twinkle in his irises. "May your beer be laid under an enchantment of surpassing excellence for seven years!"

Minerva only gazed at them strangely, her mind still foggy from sleeping just a moment before. The wizard turned to look her in the eyes, a message of 'tell you everything later' reflecting in them.

The short man smiled cheerfully. "Let's get inside!"

He turned towards the door and opened them so they could enter.

"Minerva?" Gandalf questioned as she sat still on Shadownfax.

"Oh, right," the witch whispered to herself and jumped off of the horse.

"Nob! Get this magnificent horse to the stables," Barliman asked the little hobbit in a quite harsh way.

"Thank you." The wizard stopped the boy with a calm smile. "I will do it myself."

"As you wish! I will lead your beautiful lady to your usual room where you can join us when you're done."

Butterbur motioned for Minerva to come inside the pub, the door closing behind her.

Her cautious gaze quickly scanned everything around, her lips pressing into a thin line the exact moment she finished. The inn was filled with people, most of them drunk, or about to get. Loud songs echoed around, causing Minerva to sigh in annoyance. All she wanted was a peaceful place to stay in, only if for a short night.

Hiding her displeasure, the witch composed herself and strode forward, following Nob's lead.

"Do you have a name, dear?" the man asked with a beaming smile as they stopped before a wooden bar.

"Minerva McGonagall," the woman answered, squeezing the keys that Nob had shoved into her palm. "And you?"

"Barliman Butterbur," Gandalf said beside her, his hand softly patting her shoulder. "Can we get something to eat?"

"Of course," the bartender agreed, leading them to the only empty table. "I'll be back in a minute while Nob serves you and the other visitors."

"Yes, sir." The hobbit nodded and both of them left.

Gandalf took off his grey hat and scarf as the woman sat down opposite him with an unusual expression covering her features.

"What is the matter, Minerva?" he questioned softly.

"I'm just tired, that's all," she murmured.

"You know, our room is second to the left, upstairs." The wizard gave her a relaxed smile.

Minerva snorted silently, traces of smile touching her face. "Do you mean  _your usual_  room? And by the way, Butterbur seemed too accustomed to the fact that you brought me together."

The smile that played on his lips was gone the exact moment she finished her sentence, and the woman regretted saying that.

"I-I have never brought any woman here … Well, excluding you, of course. And, that man is used to me, not you. You see … I have known his family for generations," Gandalf explained quickly, playing with the sleeve of his robe.

The witch let out a chuckle under her breath at his reaction. "I'm just teasing you."

"Oh…"

They sat silent for a moment until both off them broke laughing at Gandalf's reaction.

"It's hard to understand when you're joking." The man smiled.

"I can see that." Minerva flashed a tiny smile and stood up with a small yawn. "I'll be back in a moment."

"Of course."

Squeezing the keys in her palm, the woman picked up Gandalf's discarded clothes and walked towards the narrow stairs. Lowering her guard down, she missed the suspicious looks directed at her back.

Closing the door behind her, Minerva thought of light and, to her surprise, all candles in the room lit up. Just like in the Shire.

With a disturbing sigh, the witch threw grey clothes on an armchair by the fireplace. The room was big, with quite a few windows. One large bed, two armchairs, table, and a fireplace. But no bookshelves. Nor a wardrobe. It did not look like a room where Gandalf had stayed frequently.

Raindrops hitting the windowsills could be heard in the silence of the night. Minerva only took the light bag off of her shoulders, placing it on the soft bed. Without any sound, she left the room and closed the door behind her back.

"Why don't you ditch the old man already?"

The voice of a man caused the woman to turn around as she reached the stairs. She eyed him carefully, a strong stench of alcohol hitting her nostrils. He was quite muscular, not a single hair on his shining head, a weird smirk on his face.

"Not for a dobber like you," Minerva answered strictly and turned around to take her leave.

She stepped down the stairs and looked around for Gandalf, sensing the man stumbling down after her.

"Get out of the way, fool!" the man roared. "You're blocking the view of —"

Minerva turned around in time to see the man falling on the floor with blood streaming down his face. Gandalf stood with his back to her, his figure grown in size quite a few times.

"Had enough?" he questioned, light taunt in his voice.

The man on the ground only groaned in response.

"Then stand up and use your useless mouth to apologize," Gandalf ordered, cold calmness darkening his serious face. " _Now_."

The drunk got back on his feet, stumbling all the ways he could, and finally the wizard moved sideways, revealing Minerva.

"You wish." He smirked, wiping his nose.

The woman only saw the fire of pure rage flicker in Gandalf's ashen eyes as he brushed past her and towards the man. This was bad.

No hesitations tried to change the mind of the woman as her hand hit his chest in a stopping manner. "Don't. Whatever you want to do to him, he's not worth it."

The wizard looked into her eyes with a questioning expression. His features softened and the fire in his irises was changed by the calmness of grey mist. Minerva's hand left his body and she turned around to take her leave, Gandalf not far behind her.

"Fleeing from a fight under a woman's order, are ya?" The drunk laughed.

The wizard could have sworn he saw a smirk cross her face for a moment as the man behind them cried out. With an unhidden twinkle in his eyes, he helped the woman to sit down at their table.

The pair did not notice how the silence that had filled the pub was once again disturbed by chats and songs. Minerva only looked into his sparkling eyes that hid a summer storm under.

Sooner or later, the witch tore her gaze from his calming irises, finally picking up a fork and knife.

Minutes after, they finished their dinner, waiting for Butterbur to join them for a conversation. The woman shifted in her place, an unintentional sigh escaping her lips.

"Something bothering you, my dear?" Gandalf asked softly.

She shook her head in response, playing with her own fork. The wizard was to inquire again when Butterbur appeared beside him.

"Shall we go?" he acknowledged with a smile.

Gandalf stood up with a nod, Minerva doing the same. Barliman let them reach the stairs, before calling Nob. "Clean the table," he ordered and was gone.

When they reached the room, the woman passed the keys of it to her fellow wizard. Three of them entered the dark room, which it had been before Minerva waved her wand. Gandalf flashed her a smile as Butterbur gasped in surprise.

"I'll be back in a minute," the woman reported. "I have left my cloak at the table."

"We'll wait for you here."

The witch flew through the door, closing them behind her. Stopping at the end of the staircase, she noticed that the pub was not as crowded as it had been a minute before. Only a few were left. Strange.

Minerva could feel pairs of eyes on her own back as she picked up her cloak. She swiftly made her way back to the old set of stairs, only to receive a hard blow to her side. With a gasp, Minerva hit the wall, the same drunk grabbing her wrists.

"Where is that old fool to save you now?" He smirked against her neck.

The witch snorted in disgust and stunned him by bringing her knee right between his legs. With a groan, he fell before her feet.

"You shouldn't call others by your own name." She eyed his kneeling form carefully and turned to take her leave.

However, a firm hand on her shoulder pulled her with such force that she almost fell before someone's legs. Minerva dodged just in time, a fist hitting a wall instead of her face. But it hadn't been the drunk who tried to punch her. It had been another one.

Without wasting any time, the witch drew out her wand, sliding from under the frame of her attacker. That was a wrong move.

"Drop it," a cloaked figure ordered.

With a quick turn, Minerva saw a silver knife pressed to the little hobbit's neck. He squirmed underneath the deadly grip, but in vain, fear shining in his irises.

Her wand hit the ground silently.

Yet another man lunged himself at her. With a single glance at him, the woman smashed his head with a bottle of ale that she had grabbed in instinct, and the attacker dropped unconscious on the ground.

Minerva only had the time to notice how Nob flew upstairs before she was flung on the nearby table, her left shoulder creaking in discomfort. A groan escaped her as she tried to shake herself out of threatening darkness. With a deep breath, she rose to her legs.

She blocked another clout with her right arm, the left one too painful to move. There were four men left in the pub, three of them fighting while one of them stood and silently watched.

With a choke she fell on her knees, her not fast enough reaction the reason behind her missing a bash right at her wound. Jumping on her legs once again, she shoved one of the attackers into a wall. He shouldn't cause trouble anymore.

Finally, Minerva managed to grab her wand from the floor and stun the man before her. Another spell, and another attacker was blasted into a wall. It was almost over.

_Almost_.

The witch felt her right arm being sliced to the bone, her wand falling from her strong clutch. She bit her lip in an attempt to stifle the threatening to erupt scream. She succeeded in the particularly difficult task, metallic liquid filling her mouth.

Before Minerva could regain her breath and composure, the last man charged at her with his sword. He didn't miss a single time. Not even once.

In the end, the woman found herself lying on the cold floor, writhing and convulsing in searing pain. Yet, no sound escaped her lips.

Her raven hair were out of the bun, sprawled on the stone, sinking in the depths of the red sea. Her ears were fixed only upon the sound of her own shallow breathing, as her eyes closed without command.

But her irises were once again wide open as the man straddled her, his weight pressing her down. Minerva gritted her teeth in pain, trying to slam the one above away.

Her hands were pinned above her head, the left one pulsing in discomfort. She almost screamed.

_Almost_.

" _He_  ordered not to touch you."

His voice was clear as his cold fingers wiped the blood from her cut cheek.

"But he's not here, is  _he_?"

With those words, his mouth crashed with hers in a kiss, seeming to suck all of the air from her lungs. He gnawed on her bottom lip, cutting it even deeper than before. Her instinct was to fight him off, to stop his hands and mouth from devouring her this way. But she couldn't.

As he left her mouth to bite on her neck, Minerva was finally allowed to draw a shallow breath.

When the man finally felt her resistance, he pulled out a needle with bright blue liquid.

"You won't scream, will you?" He smirked down at her.

With a quick motion the needle was in her neck, drawing a gasp from her insides. The man continued his assault as her eyes turned white, just as raven turned into snow. Minerva could not concentrate anymore, her mind blank, her body unmoving.

_Was this really happening? Where was Gandalf?_  Thoughts swirled in her head before she would stifle a groan of pain.

She then visibly relaxed, Albus' voice echoed in her head.

" _Minerva…"_  he called.

But the woman could not respond, lying under the man who unbuttoned her torn shirt.

Green light and the highest tower of Hogwarts flew before her eyes like a distant present, tearing her soul into shreds, again and again. The last words of the great headmaster echoing in the deathly silence while his limp body fell down under the black, full of bright stars sky.

"Minerva!"

This voice did not belong to Albus. No, it belonged to someone else.

The man atop of her was flung into a wall, her lungs once again allowed to take what they need.

_Why?_ Minerva asked herself as she pushed herself up from the ground.  _Why?_

She stumbled forward before even rising fully to stand, her knees crashing against the stone. Her fingers gripped the edge of the wooden table before her eyes focused on the figure flying through the door of the inn.

With a grunt, the witch rose to her full height and staggered through the same wooden frame. Cold rain poured upon her snowy head, washing the red from her body.

The man was waiting for her. A sword was in his hand, a familiar smirk crossing his face.

With determined face, Minerva took a step, only to feel air being knocked out of her lungs. The woman collapsed on the wet ground, clutching her left side in pain. Her bleached eyes widened as screams of torture reached her ears.

"It's working, I take it?" the man asked, step by step getting closer. "Can you feel the pain? How your insides are set aflame, fire lingering on every muscle in your weak body… And their voices … What can you hear,  _Minerva McGonagall_?"

Her glassy gaze rose to look at him as rain soaked both of them to the bone. Her head then dropped low, eyes shut tightly, her nails digging into the soft ground.

No, it was not the pain she couldn't endure. It was their screaming. Endless pleas left their mouths in suffer and agony, while she couldn't do a single thing about it.

"I'll take your stick as a souvenir." The man smiled.

"Why?" the witch whispered.

"Because I want to."

"No." Minerva shook her head. "Why don't you just kill me? You're here to do that, right?"

Her eyes rose to meet his dark ones, a shadow dancing in the depths of them.

"Because  _he_  ordered to not to." He turned around and slowly walked away.

The woman was silent for the shortest of moments. "But he's not here, is  _he_?"

"He's not," the man stated. "Stand up."

Minerva did as told. But she didn't know why.

"Any last words?" He turned to look at her.

" _Tell him I send my best regards_."

With those words, she closed her glassy eyes, breathing in a bit of cool air for the last time.

As Minerva opened them again, Gandalf's face flashed before her. He was smiling, his ashen irises wet with unshed tears. His hands were on her shoulders, their hold relaxing as the wizard dropped to his knees.

"Minerva…" he whispered as she collapsed before him.

She looked behind him, but only saw the tall shadows of the night dancing before her. The man was gone. Only blood soaked into Gandalf's silver robes.

The woman laid his weary head on her knees, her hands shaking with fear. His bright eyes still shone in the moonlight, his face full of worry and sorrow.

"Minerva, I-I…" he managed before she put a hand on his cheek.

"Don't," the woman choked out, tears already streaming down her face. "Don't speak…"

They sat silent for a few moments, her eyes glancing at the dark sky above.

"Look at me…" Gandalf insisted silently, his fingers wrapping around hers softly.

When she finally did, the man wiped away her tears, a sigh escaping him.

" _I-I love you_ ," he murmured.

"I know." She smiled, but grief in her eyes could not be missed.

The grey wanderer locked his eyes with hers until he slowly closed them, the final breath of relief leaving his body. After that, he moved no more.

Sobs wrecked Minerva's body as her fingers finally let go of his, her eyes darkening with sorrow.

"I love you…" she cried out in pain. "Can you hear me? I- I love you!"

But those three words never reached her in return.

And the only thing she regretted the most, was that she  _almost_  had another chance at love. She was  _almost_  happy. He  _almost_ lived. And they  _almost_  made it through.

But there was this one little word.

_Almost._

~~THE END~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S NOT THE END, I'M JOKING  
> I'M SORRY FOR THIS CHAPTER


	5. Grey fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf the Grey was dead. Or was he? Find out what really happened the night Minerva was attacked.

" _Minerva?"_

The woman jumped straight up, clasping her mouth in fear. Cold sweat poured down her forehead as she tried to catch her breath.

"Are you alright?"

_That voice…_ It belonged to the one who was  _dead._

_Gandalf._

Her irises slowly rose, the hand on her face sliding down to lie on her lap. Any trace of colour that showed on her porcelain skin was drained as her eyes met his dark form.

"Oh, right!" he mumbled to her confusion.

Suddenly, Minerva felt soft fingers lightly brush against her cheek as she finally regained her vision.

There he was. Gandalf the Grey sat on the edge of his own bed, his hand resting on top of hers. Only concern shone in his serious expression.

"You're dead…" the witch breathed out.

"I'm what?" He raised an eyebrow in return.

"Dead, killed, lifeless…  _Not existing_."

Before he could answer, Minerva rose from the bed and sprinted to the mirror beside the fireplace. Her hands were shaking without a reason. She could not control it.

Her hair was black. Just as her eyes were emerald green.

"Minerva, what are you doing?" Gandalf stood up, confusion clear in his voice. "Minerva!"

The woman began unbuttoning her clean shirt, her fingers working on buttons as swiftly as possible. The dark cloth dropped on the ground as the witch gazed at her reflection.

It was true. Everything that had happened was real.

Blue lines entwined around her left arm, from her palm to elbow. Symbols were inked into her skin, shining before her cloudy irises. It only meant that she had been truly poisoned. Again.

With a trembling breath, Minerva sunk to her knees. Shifting, she pulled her legs to her chest and hugged them in pain.

_Dead. He was dead._

As she still felt his touch upon her shoulder, a shiver ran down her spine. He called her name, trying to get her attention. But he did not get any results except for her to shut her eyes tightly.

"Please, leave me alone…" she cried out. "I'm sorry I let you die! I'm sorry I couldn't save you!"

"Minerva, please, listen to me," he pleaded, fingers pushing her jaw up so their eyes could meet. "I'm alive. Everything is alright."

The woman only buried her head deep in the roughness of her clothes. Her body was trembling with fear of insanity.

"I-I am sorry that you died in my arms… You shouldn't have saved me. It's my fault…"

She mumbled apologies as he gathered her into his arms, a sorrow of unknown filling his heart.

"It was just a dream, my dear Minerva…" he whispered soft words in return. "I'm real and  _I'll never leave you_ … Remember that."

The woman gave up for a single moment and let herself answer. " _You… You should remember what you promise, Gandalf the Grey_."

"I will." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "I always do."

" _I know_."

* * *

This time Minerva woke up with the sun shining through the window.  _For how long was she asleep?_  Three hours at the most, if she was that lucky.

A headache and feeling of nausea filled her insides, a shiver running down her body as she lowered her legs to the ground. Pulling up her boots, Minerva stood up and went to a bucket with water.

_Really?_ She thought, dipping her hands into the coldness.  _A bucket?_

After washing her face and fixing her raven hair, the woman walked to look through the window.

' _If he really is alive, he will come,'_  she pondered, her fingers lightly tapping on the windowsill.

"Well?" Gandalf's voice caused her to turn around and face him. "Dead or alive?"

They stood facing each other, her back leaning on the windowsill. She could still breathe in the smell of pipeweed and tea he just had, her emerald eyes sparkling with hope.

"A- alive?" the witch stuttered.

His eyebrows shot upward in surprise. "My dearest Minerva, was that a question?"

"Yes. I mean no - I-I just don't know…"

Her irises gazed at everything, except his smiling face. After what seemed hours, Gandalf finally thought of a way to reassure her.

"You know… I don't think that a ghost could have a heart," he whispered.

Minerva looked him in the eyes. "Do you?"

"Only one way to find out."

Her hand rose to his grey chest, her fingertips dancing lightly on the soft material. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, a fire flaming inside.

"Minerva?" he muttered in his clear voice as her other hand brushed the locks from his broad shoulder.

"Even if you do have a heart, I'd like to feel its beat."

Her fingertips softly glided against his neck, searching for his pulse. The woman felt Gandalf shiver under her gentle touch, a small smirk crossing her face.

"Cold,  _are we_?" she teased him.

His heart was hammering like mad, breath hitched in his throat. After a moment he gave up trying to control it, and slowly tilted his head forward.

Minerva rose on her toes to face him, her fingers wrapping around his robe tightly.

His breath was on her lips as his hands sneaked around her lean form, pulling her closer than ever before.

A single inch.

That was all left between them before they heard a loud clearing of a throat.

Both of them jumped from the other as if burned by a flame, Gandalf almost dropping on the ground after turning so fast.

It was Butterbur.

He stood there leaning on the door frame, a knowing smile on his face.

"Sorry for the interruption, but the breakfast is ready," the man remarked.

"Oh… I- we were just coming," Gandalf stammered, a sigh escaping him.

"Give us five minutes," Minerva added.

Barliman shifted in his position and nodded his head. "As you wish."

When he left and silently closed the door, the wizard swirled around to look at her, a sheepish smile playing on his face.

"What do you need, Minerva?" he inquired softly.

The woman took a small step back and again leaned on the windowsill. "Right now?"

As Gandalf nodded, something changed in her gaze. "Answers."

"Then give me questions."

Her face was now cheerless, the playful mood long gone. When he took her hands in his larger ones, her eyes rose to meet his.

"What are these lines?" she whispered as he traced her left arm. "It's poison, isn't it?"

"It is." He sighed. "And yet again I have no antidote for it."

"It's alright." Minerva squeezed his hands. "I'm accustomed. And it isn't that bad, you know, except for those frighteningly realistic hallucinations."

Gandalf pursed his lips in disapproval of her words, sorrow in his grey irises. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," the woman scolded. "Just tell me what happened."

He was silent for a single moment, her eyes soothing wounds in his heart. "You went to pick up your cloak… Then you came back and after a moment collapsed in my arms."

"I came back?" she asked, surprise in her voice evident.

"You did."

"That means nothing happened..." Minerva flashed a tiny smile. "I knew I couldn't have lost against those drunk tossers."

Gandalf chuckled in response, his eyes once again twinkling with joy. "I think our breakfast got cold already."

The woman snorted at his remark. "That's all you think about right now?"

"Don't worry, my dear." He grinned. "You'll always be in the first place."

The witch only rolled her eyes at the cheesiness of his words.

When they finally did get to the door, cloak and backpack on her shoulders, the woman embraced Gandalf, sneaking her arms around his neck.

"I'm glad you're alive," she whispered into his ear.

"So am I... I don't like the idea of being dead."

Gandalf laughed as the woman playfully swatted him on the back, drawing a sigh of relief from her.

"Minerva?" he asked, as her right hand touched his abdomen, staying there still for a moment.

"Just checking," the woman answered, finally letting go of him.

His arms were still around her waist, a twinkle in his cloudy eyes.

"We really should be going."

The wizard frowned and let go of her, opening the door for her to exit. When they got down the stairs, Butterbur was waiting for them, talking with Nob cheerfully.

"Came to see me?"

As Minerva turned to look at the drunk whose nose Gandalf broke yesterday, she felt the air around herself thicken. The wizard beside her was definitely preparing for an attack.

When the woman whispered something to him, he went to the table where Barliman sat, a flame in his eyes. The witch smiled at the man who was smirking at her, a spark lingering in her emerald irises.

"Yes," Minerva practically purred. "Please consider coming closer and I just might show you why."

The drunk did as told, puffing his chest on the way as his mates cheered him on.

"Now, my dear, what-"

Before he could finish, Minerva kicked him flat in the chest with such force that the man broke the table he fell on. A weak groan escaped him as he lay limp on the stone floor.

"Pathetic," she sneered and turned around. "But it was nice  _seeing_  you."

The woman sat down at their table, Nob by her side, Gandalf and Butterbur across. She rolled her eyes at their expressions, her fingers reaching to shut the mouth of the wizard.

"Men…" Minerva snorted.

The next ten minutes were full of chats as the four of them sat at the table, eating still warm breakfast. When all of them walked outside, Minerva yawned, waving Gandalf off to get Shadowfax.

The comfortable silence was disturbed when Nob tugged on her dark sleeve. The witch turned to look at him and he motioned for her to kneel.

When the wizard finally showed up, the woman finished her little talk with Nob and handed him a single conjured rose.

"I bid you both farewell, may the same light shine upon our next meeting. If it does not… I don't think we shall meet again."

Minerva rolled her eyes at his dramatic words. "You're such a showoff, Gandalf."

"Ah, my dear, don't ruin my amazing speech." He beamed at her.

With his help, she got on Shadowfax, turning her gaze at the two who stood together.

"We part today to meet again tomorrow, my friends. You and I will meet again when you least expect it, may it be after days, weeks, years or ages!" she spoke in a proud tone and turned to look at Gandalf. "That's how you do it." She smirked.

"My wounded pride!" the man exclaimed, pretending to faint.

Minerva elbowed his ribs, turning his laughter into a groan. "You're so childish…"

"Only with you, my dear lady!"

As she rolled her eyes, he said goodbye to the pair.

"See you soon!" She waved her hand and Gandalf turned Shadowfax around.

After a moment, they were flying towards their only destination – Rivendell.

"They fit together very well, you know," Nob remarked as the two friends went inside the inn.

"They do, my boy." Butterbur smiled. "They only have to realize it."

* * *

Weathertop.

That's what Gandalf had said it was called. But there were only ruins of the once beautiful place, a dark forest shielding it from unfriendly eyes.

They set up for the night, a fire warming her body after the ride in the harsh weather of autumn.

The wizard did notice Minerva shivering as her back leaned on the stone pillar. His careful steps pulled her out of the dreamy state, her gaze meeting his caring one.

His fingers brushed against her skin as he wrapped a silver scarf around her neck, covering half of her pale face.

"You should get some sleep, my dear," the man whispered, pulling the hood upon her head.

"You should, too," Minerva said, her voice muffled by the cloth.

"Maybe later."

Gandalf sat down next to her, sneaking his hand around her back. Their fingers entwined together, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Your eyes are dark with longing," he broke the comfortable silence.

Minerva sat still for a few long moments. "I miss my world."

"But that is why I'm here, right?" The man squeezed her hand in reassurance. "You can talk with me."

She took a deep breath that turned into a sigh. "Before war everything was so simple… I just taught children, took care of them and tried to protect… And now… I don't even know what happened-"

"Minerva," Gandalf cut off her sorrowful words. "If you want to forget just for a moment, you should remember times that made you happy."

The woman found herself smiling at his caring interruption. "I don't think it's good to dwell on past too often," she admitted. "I'll tell you about the four houses in Hogwarts instead."

The wizard only hummed in response, playing with her warm and soft fingers.

As Minerva began explaining, his silver eyes lazily drifted upon her face, spotting the change in her once dark gaze. It was directed at the burning fire, but he still caught the beautiful spark of delight in the depths of forest green. Her cheeks were now coloured in light pink, bringing out the stunning beauty of her face. He noticed how her lips twitched upward as she spoke about her brilliant students, joy filling his own heart.

"Are you even listening?" the woman inquired, noticing his distant glance.

"It would be rude if I wouldn't, my dear." The man smiled at her. "Now, which house would I belong to?"

"Gryffindor, I guess. Or maybe Ravenclaw… It's for you to decide."

"Then Gryffindor it is!" Gandalf chimed merrily.

Minerva smiled at his childish behavior, her eyes locking with his.

"Why Gryffindor?" she questioned.

"I would choose braveness over intelligence."

Her gaze wandered back to the burning fire, warming shine in it.

The wizard tightened his grip around her, sighing into the darkness of the night. Only moments after he felt her drift off on his broad shoulder.

Gandalf still wondered if he should tell her that he had heard everything she screamed the night before. _And that her hair and eyes had turned bright white._

* * *

Minerva woke up to the rumbling of hooves in the distance. The man was already awake, his eyes shining with alarm.

"Ringwraiths," he answered her silent question, helping her to stand up. "We have to leave…  _Now_."

The woman only nodded, putting the backpack on her shoulders. A wave of her wand and the smoldering fire was put out, darkness surrounding everything once again.

"I'll get Shadowfax, you wait here." Gandalf picked up his staff. "If they come, call me. It's better to run than to fight."

Now those were the words Minerva never thought she would hear from the man before her. It was evident that he was afraid. But of what?

"Stay safe," he whispered and was gone.

The witch gulped, her throat dry from the abrupt wake-up. There was silence. A shiver ran down her spine as she heard someone's shallow breathing.

Minerva spun around in a heist, her wand now shining brightly. Her irises fell upon a horrifying creature with dark, torn robes. A dementor?

Stifling a gasp, the woman only jumped backwards, pointing her wand right at its head.

" _Expecto patronum_!" she called.

A silver cat was gone as fast as it came. Nothing happened.

Minerva found herself calling all of the spells she knew, backing away from the terrifying creature. But every attack that she made flew right through it.

"If you really want to fight, you should use a weapon!" Gandalf called, throwing her his staff.

Was that a smirk on his face?

' _The nerves of that man_ …' The woman shook her head, regressing a slice from the hooded one.

There were four of them now, their screeching loud enough for even a deaf one to hear.

"Maybe we should change!"

Sword in her hand, Minerva finally managed to stab the creature, his boisterous scream echoing around.

Hearing another screech behind her, she tried to swirl around but white light blinded her emerald irises. As it finally faded away, the woman only saw Gandalf collapse on the ground, her name graced his lips.

_It was happening all over again._

Her emerald eyes closed in fear. Black riders still tried to get to her.

When Minerva opened her irises again, everything burned in raging fire. Her own face was calm as a midnight sea, only her eyes shone in the same, claret flame.

Heat licked her skin, but she felt nothing, kneeling down beside Gandalf. Her face hovered above his and a smile adorned his features. That was strange.

"Why are you smiling?" the woman asked, finally losing her temper.

"Y- you are a go- goddess…" he whispered, his ragged voice shaking with pain.

Swallowing the bitter, Minerva touched his bleeding chest. A moan left the mouth of the wizard, but she ignored it. With a firm hand, the woman ripped his grey robe in half, dismissing her actions after reaching his belt.

"You really earned your name,  _grey fool_ ," she said calmly, both of them finally descending into utter darkness, save for her shining wand. "If you weren't already dying, I would kill you myself for being such a reckless idiot." As Minerva heard him groan in return, her eyes glittered with tears. But she did not cry. Why should she?

"It's alright," a sorrowful whisper left her mouth as her glance fell upon the struggling wizard. "You can close your eyes."

He just shook his head in return, obviously not available to speak anymore. Minerva smiled a bit at his stubbornness, a spell cleaning blood from him. "You should be glad that my friend is a nurse."

With a determined face, Minerva waved her wand, but nothing happened. That spell should have healed his bleeding wound. But it didn't.

After understanding that nothing would work, frustration filled her insides. With a frown on her face, she gazed at Gandalf's worn out face. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead, only for her gentle fingers to wipe it off. His irises shone in ghostly white while confused murmurs left his mouth in an answer to her silent question.

"I'll get you to Rivendell," Minerva said, a small spark of hope flickering inside her. "The elves will help you."

Minute after she finally stopped the bleeding of his wound, a sigh escaping her. Her hands worked upon his firm chest, wrapping it in bandages.

"Let's get you up," she whispered, after gathering his scattered things.

With steadying grip, Gandalf now stood on his legs, his knees billowing under. His brown bag hanged upon her shoulder while the dark sheath of the sword found a place around her waist. The wooden staff was tight in her grip, along with the shining wand.

Minerva helped him to settle down on Shadowfax, her position in the back. Arms around his waist, cold autumn wind blowing through their thin clothes as they were on the road once again.

* * *

A whole week of restless nights, frightening hallucinations and damp, cool weather of the day. Blood had soaked his grey robes, along with her dark garments. The only thing that held Minerva's soul together was that he wasn't dead.

_Yet._

Gandalf himself was unconscious, his steady breathing calming her hammering heart. His bewildered mind reflected in his manner of speaking, strange words left his mouth while he slept. He had not recognized her those few times he had been awake, his sense of reality far away from here.

Weary. That's how Minerva felt after finally riding through the gates of Rivendell, the moon lighting their path. Shadowfax stopped before the porcelain staircase, shaking his mane in distress.

With a sigh, she slid off of the creature, dragging Gandalf along. His staff in her hand, his body hoisted up on her shoulder.  _'Great…'_  She eyed the infinite stairs.

As she finally did walk to them, she felt Shadowfax galloping behind her. Turning around, the woman found it looking at her, a strange emptiness in his irises.

"Don't worry…" She patted his silver head. "I will bring him back to you alive."

Only moments after did the creature turn around and leave her alone with silence.

Flame in her glassy eyes, Minerva began climbing towards the tall door of the snowy mansion. The man was not as heavy as she had in mind, his weight lightly pressing her down.

She found the wide hall behind the entrance to be empty, only a small light at the end. Her heavy footsteps echoed around as she made her way, drops of crimson splattering on the tiles. Little did Minerva know that it was hers.

Passing Gandalf's wooden staff to her other hand, she unsheathed Glamdring. Steel shone in cool flame, reflecting her persistent face.

Whatever was to happen, she was ready.

Five steps was all it took to hear a chorus of expected gasps, breaking dishes and curses for spilled drinks. Minerva's eyes flamed under the square frame as everyone who sat around the table waited for her to speak.

"I need help."

It surprised her of how calm and even her own voice had been, saying those three so unbelievable words. But it had been for him.

Everything that had happened after that was covered by fog, her mind too weary to think straight. A man lifted Gandalf from her shoulder and carried him to safety. When Minerva turned around to follow, a clear voice stopped her.

"Do you not need help?"

The woman only shook her head, yet again turning to take her leave. Countless corridors and staircases later, she found herself in a hospital wing.

A group of men surrounded his lifeless body, the woman could sort out spells being called. Minerva only heard his groans and screams, his body thrashing in the crimson bed. Ghostly white irises shone like two stars, shredding her already weak heart. Not available to endure anymore, she tore her gaze away and began pacing around the wide room.

It felt like an eternity before Gandalf had calmed down, her steps ceasing to none. Everyone who had been in the room had left, except for one man, mask of patience and peace upon his face. He turned to look at her from across the room, a weary smile crossing his features.

"Your own clothes are soaked in claret."

His voice was soothing, deep wisdom hidden under it while his eyes had the spark of such long but full life. The one before her was not just a simple man.

"It does not belong to me," Minerva answered, sorrow evident in her words.

"Come here, please," he called softly as if she was a mere child.

She did.

Steady hands on her shoulders pushed her on the soft bed, aware that she still had a sword in her grip. Cool fingers traced her skin, drawing a sudden breath from her.

"Not yours, you say?"

Minutes later, Minerva sighed in relief, skilled hands healing her wounds from the last battle. Bandages covered her arms, cutting off the alarming flow.

Her discarded clothes lay upon another bed, Gandalf's staff and sword joining them for the night.

"Would you like me to lead you to a guest room?" he asked, finally ending his effortless job.

The witch only shook her head. "No. I'll stay here for the night."

"Then I must leave you now." The man stood up. "I will pay you a visit the first thing in the morning."

With a polite bow of his head, he retreated, leaving her to gaze at Gandalf's sleeping form. White cloth shone upon his chest, his silver hair sprawled upon the feather pillow.

"You almost did it,  _grey fool_ ," Minerva whispered, her palm resting against his cool skin. "You almost ripped my heart out."

* * *

The warm water relaxed Minerva's body as her voice joined birds' chattering in a deep hum. A sigh of relief left her, emerald eyes closed in pure satisfaction.

Gandalf was safe.

That was the only thing that mattered for the moment. The man was alive and well, still unconscious but already resting in his usual quarters. Minerva was given a room next to his, with a balcony and an incredible bathroom, the first place she went to.

As her crystal irises traced the calm water, a dark shadow crossed its surface for a single moment.  _Nothing unusual_ , as Minerva saw it.

With uneasy mind, she remembered her second meeting with the high ranged elf. Of course, the witch hadn't known he was Elrond, the half-elven Lord of Imladris. It was quite embarrassing to recall last night when in her eyes he had been but a mere man.

Rather knocked by the fact, Minerva was quick to apologize, a small smile was given to her in return. The warm welcome from his side was more than appreciated, her heart light with the joy of familiarity.

Pulling herself from distant thoughts, she finally got out of the comfortable bath. Drops lingered on her porcelain skin, sunlight was streaming through a window and gracefully dancing upon her raven locks.

Towel wrapped around her lithe frame, she closed the door behind her and emerald eyes fell upon the clothes lying on the wide bed. Too wide for a single person.

Trying them on, Minerva stood before the framed mirror.  _Just like the old times_ , the witch sighed, her light gaze tracing the perfectly fitting attire. Dark tartan skirt, ebony green waistcoat, snow white shirt and short, flat boots.

She never knew that a simple outfit could bring so much happiness into her life. A little smile graced her lips, a twinkle in her eyes as Minerva left her room to visit a certain wizard.

* * *

"Mithrandir is awake."

A soft voice startled Minerva, her intent gaze rising from the old book she was reading. The spark in her emerald sea changed, her heart gaining a beat of its own.

"Thank you for telling," she answered, successfully hiding her immense joy.

With a nod, the tall elf silently left her room. A smile softened her features as Minerva jumped on her legs, the book staying on the red armchair.

_Finally_ , she thought, for he had been unconscious for five days already.

Opening the white door, Minerva ran into none other than Gandalf the Grey. Messy hair, the grey shirt he once gave her, and trousers, same old boots on his feet. The same light in his now grey eyes, a question rising from the depths of her mind. Later, she would ask why they changed their colour. But only later.

"Had a nice nap?" she questioned, smallest of smirks showing upon her face.

"Ah, Minerva… How I missed you." He smiled.

His voice was clear and energetic, happiness clear in his tone. With one sudden movement Gandalf gathered her into his arms, his embrace tight and desperate. The woman sneaked her arms around his neck, sighing against his neck.

"I missed you, too, fool," she whispered, breathing the so familiar scent. "You should stop dying."

"If that only depended on me, my dear."

With a sigh, Gandalf pulled away, only to look intently at her face. His fingers traced her soft skin, searching for any scars that weren't there the last time he saw her.

The woman gazed into his ashen eyes, wishing to stay like that forever. But weariness in his irises shone as clearly as the sun outside the dusty window.

"You still need to rest," Minerva said.

The wizard frowned, forcing her to scold him like a stubborn student. "Bed.  _Now_."

The expression of her face made Gandalf shut his mouth before he tried to answer. Hiding his grin, he finally managed to reply, "Is that a suggestion?"

The man laughed as Minerva firmly swatted him on the shoulder, a different flame flickering in her emerald eyes.

* * *

"I feel better that he does," Minerva defended herself, lying on a wide bed, her fellow wizard tapping his fingers on a wooden arm of a chair. "Gandalf was wounded by a nazgul and I was just… stabbed by the dark lord who tried to kill me."

Lord Elrond looked at her with infinite calmness, trying to get the woman to let him heal her. Minerva had declined to be checked upon, persuading him into believing that she was 'fine'.

"I already took care of his wound," the elf explained, "while yours is still to be aware of."

"And what do you want to do to me, exactly?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow. "Stitch me up?"

"Yes, but only after I get the poison out," he answered. "But it will hurt."

"As if I haven't heard those words before."

Nothing could have prepared her for the pain Minerva felt as a needle touched her vein. At first, it was just a small tingle, causing a shiver run down her spine. But now… The pain was unbearable, coming and going in waves of torture.

Softly, as if afraid to even come near, gentle fingers lightly touched hers. It was not a touch of fear, but rather a touch of loving care and urgent need. Yes, Minerva did feel his fear. Frightening feeling that if he would touch her, she would disappear as the moon did every time light touched a single fragile flower in the sea of green.

Yet, Gandalf's fingers entwined around hers, taking everything she had had left inside.

A fool.

That's what he was. That's who he was as she repeated one word in her mind, pain reducing, if only slightly.

Fool.

Emerald eyes traced white ceiling, memorizing every single detail.  _It does hurt,_ Minerva mused, still breathing calmly. Not a single sound escaped. Not a single wince of pain touched her porcelain face.

After one powerful wave, she heard Gandalf's breath hitch in his throat, a crack echoing in the room.

Only moments after, the witch felt her vision swarming in utter darkness. Her own name was called a single time before her mind surrendered to the sudden weariness.

* * *

' _You know she is a mortal.'_

' _Yes.'_

' _Then why?'_

' _Because after all these years, I-I managed to find the one I never thought I was in need of.'_

* * *

_A mortal. That's who Minerva was. That could only mean one thing._

The woman stood in the wide balcony of her own room, her mind cloudy with thoughts. Silk dressing gown graced her lean figure, waves of black fell down her shoulders. Pools of emerald shone behind the square glasses, light breeze grazed her soft skin.

_Immortal._

That man was immortal.

With a sigh, Minerva closed her eyes. Luck had never been in her favor. Nor would it ever be.

"What heavies your heart so much, my dear?"

Of course, Gandalf stood behind her, possibly a tray in his hands. Worry in his voice could not go unnoticed, her hearing too perfect to miss it.

"You," she answered, turning around to look at his face. "It's always you."

A silver tray indeed was in his hand, as she stated, ashen eyes drifting across her frame. But his left arm was hidden behind his grey back as if in a hope she would not notice.

"I broke it, didn't I?" Minerva questioned before he could give his answer.

Sighing, she made her way towards him, her bare feet tapping against the cold ground. With a gentle hand, she put away the tray and checked upon his wounded arm.

Gandalf said nothing, his eyes hiding something that had been haunting him for a long time. Summoning her wand, Minerva casted a healing charm to fix his broken bone.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to cause you to worry. You know… heaving your heart on such a beautiful morning," he answered, his gaze never meeting hers. "Minerva, I-I…"

Her hand covered his cheek, her head shaking in disapproval. "If it's not about your immortality, don't."

Letting go of him, she sat down by a table, sipping just brewed tea. Gandalf stood where the woman left him, staring at her in surprise.

"Will you join me?" Minerva asked.

He shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't. I'm going to the council of Elrond." The wizard paused for a brief moment. "You have fifteen minutes."

"What?"

The witch managed to stand up as Gandalf tried to slip out the door.

"Lord Elrond required for your presence there."

Minerva couldn't say that his words were harsh. But not warm either. Their whole conversation had been strange, unfriendly even. Something had changed him.

"I'll be there," she only said, her eyes penetrating through his mask of calmness.

When Gandalf left, the witch was left wondering what caused him to act so differently towards her. She hadn't noticed anything different in his eyes or manner. Except for guilt. The one thing that had been obvious.

With troubled mind, Minerva sat down and finished her breakfast.

Sixteen minutes later, the witch was walking towards the room where the council took its place. Entering, she found quite a company staring at her, of course, only men formed it.

Calm as the autumn sky, she sat down next to Gandalf before slowly gazing around.

"You're late, Minerva," the wizard whispered as Lord Elrond stood up in greeting.

Not turning at him, she answered under her breath, "You're the one who's early."

Clearing his throat, the elf began his first words of welcoming, "Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You've been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor." His clear eyes fell upon everyone who was in the gathering. "Middle Earth stands upon the brink of destruction," he continued. "None can escape it. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom."

_So it begins_ , Minerva sighed in her mind.


	6. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will happen in the council of Elrond that will change Gandalf and affect Minerva?

_So it begins,_  Minerva sighed in her mind.

Lord Elrond's eyes lingered on her a moment longer than on others before his calm gaze reached a young boy. "Bring forth the ring, Frodo."

The half-elven gestured at the pedestal as the hobbit uncertainly made his way towards it. Gold shone in his shaking hand until he put it on the white stone.

_The one ring_.

Expecting something more, Minerva was surprised to muse in deafening silence as the ringbearer sat down.

"So it is true," a man whispered, drawing her attention to his mingled with a trace of something that Minerva wasn't very fond of face.

Breaking the sudden silence, he stood up and looked around. "In a dream," he began, "I saw the eastern sky grow dark but in the west a pale light lingered."

When Minerva's eyes met his, she noticed the desire shining in their reflection. He wanted to take the ring.

"A voice was crying: "Your doom is near at hand. Isildur's bane is found." Isildur's bane…" the Gondorian man continued.

Something different flickered inside Minerva as he dangerously reached for the ring.

_Jealousy._

She was jealous of that little thing.

Insensibly, her hand gripped the arm of the wooden chair tighter, her eyes flashing in warning.

"Boromir!" Elrond cried out and jumped from his seat.

_"Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,  
Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul."_

Gandalf disturbed the peace with thunderous words. As the gloomy sky finally cleared from the darkness, Minerva sat still. Emerald pools gazed at the grey wizard, hint of fury in their reflection.

"Never before has any voice dared to utter the words of that tongue here in Imladris," the Lord of Rivendell said and sat down.

Facing everyone around, Gandalf answered, "I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for the black speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West!" After his ashen eyes stopped on the Gondorian man, he added, "The ring is altogether evil."

"It is a gift," Boromir mused. "A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this ring?"

Once again he walked around and tried to prove his own ideology. "Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe!"

Pride in his voice was evident, causing Minerva to grit her teeth in sudden anger. The ring had a powerful effect upon her.

Neither Gandalf nor Elrond missed that simple change.

"Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy," Boromir continued. "Let us use it against him!"

"You cannot wield it," Aragorn interrupted. "None of us can."

The Gondorian warrior turned to look at him, disbelief shielding his expression.

"The ring answers to Sauron alone," said the dark haired man. "It has no other master."

"And what would a ranger know of this matter?" Boromir inquired tauntingly.

Legolas Greenleaf, as Minerva now knew, stood up and cut off his words. "This is no mere ranger. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."

The auburn haired man turned to look at the Isildur's heir, surprise clear as the sky above. "Aragorn. This is Isildur's heir?"

"And heir to the throne of Gondor," the elf added.

Calmly, Aragorn shook his head. "Sit down, Legolas."

Boromir looked confused for a single moment, but then eyed the both of them and sneered, "Gondor has no king ... Gondor needs no king."

When everyone sat down, Minerva managed to take her gaze off of the ring. It took more will to raise her eyes to Gandalf than she thought.

"Aragorn is right," the wizard said. "We cannot use it."

Elrond rose to his feet and glanced at the woman beside Gandalf. "There is one who can wield it to his will."

"Who, exactly?" Boromir decided to scatter the deafening silence. "We already know it is Sauron."

"No, Sauron is not the only one who can use its power," Elrond answered. "Even though he is its master, another has the right to wear it."

"Who?"

Gandalf shifted in his chair, the gaze of the lord slowly turned to her. Minerva knew what was going to happen.

One of them would call her name, she would stand up and take the ring. But nothing was supposed to be as simple as that.

The one ring was obviously cursed; it belonged to the dark lord, after all.

Well, if she did put it on, all answers would come her way. She would either become a cruel dark lord or…

Or.

There was no or. The witch had to put it on.

"Minerva McGonagall."

' _Just say no and decline,'_ the woman thought.

It wasn't her world. She was not supposed to wield any rings of power.

"Am I?" she questioned, her mind screaming to refuse.

Her hammering heart was the exact opposite of refusal.

"Only one way to find out," Elrond answered, gesturing before her.

' _Say no… Only one word. No.'_

As if pulled by an invisible force, Minerva rose, her steps unsteady and slow. With desire deep in her soul, and struggle to defy the temptation in her mind, she stopped before the white pedestal.

Finally gripping the ring, she heard a distant voice.

' _Duck.'_

Chaos broke around the moment she did as told, sword swinging above. With a gasp, Minerva managed to turn around only for the cool blade to slice her skin.

Boromir's strained with rage eyes met hers, the reason for that obvious. A mere moment after, Gandalf's sword collided with his, ashen figure defending her from the sudden attack.

Minerva only felt her own hand rise to touch her cheek, fingers now wet with claret. Her mind was cloudy, ears deaf to the shouts of frustration, eyes blind to the sight of fighting.

The ring in her palm had the power to control people, to use them and sacrifice if in need.  _She_  had the force to enslave all of the races.  _She_  had the power to destroy everything that humankind had ever created.  _She_  had the will to reign in another world and rule all of the kingdoms.

She only had to put on the ring.

Without wasting any time, Minerva took a step towards the pedestal and put the piece of gold back. For the moment, she managed to resist its temptation.

From the corner of her eye, the witch noticed Gandalf gazing at her, smallest of smiles upon his face.

Silence was just a distant memory as the council of Elrond argued for the faith of the ring. The grey wizard now stood before her, white cloth wiped the blood off of her face.

Pushing his hands away, Minerva said, "I want it."

Sighing, Gandalf patted her shoulder sympathetically. "The ring is yours to take."

"No, you don't understand," she dismissed his words. "I want it, but I can't take it … I can feel its effect upon me. That golden ring will create another dark lord if I begin to wear it. It has to be destroyed or the faith of your world is already clear!"

Finishing her sentence, Minerva finally felt the odd silence weighing her heart. Everyone had heard her words of truth, their meaning ending all of the arguments between the members of the council.

"Your decision is a rightful one, Minerva McGonagall," Lord Elrond eventually supported her. "Now, my friends, let's sit down and agree on what will our next step be."

After everyone managed to find their seats, the woman found herself staring at the man with red, flaming like brightest fire hair. His eyes were dark, two pools of blood captivating her attention, delimitating her from the words of doom. His dark attire matched the crown upon his head, a cold smile played on his lips.

He wasn't there before.

* * *

"Your decision was foolish," Gandalf stated.

Minerva rolled her eyes at his words. "My decision was same as yours."

"Yes, but it is my responsibility to take care of Frodo. I was the one who sent him off with the ring."

Standing up, she put a hand on his shoulder, bringing his annoying pacing to a stop.

"Well, it is my responsibility to take care of  _you_ ," she remarked.

"Minerva," Gandalf pleaded, taking her hands in his, "I beg you to change your mind."

Her fingers slipped out of his hold. "You perfectly know that I am not going to do what you ask me to. Why bother trying?"

"Because your safety depends on your decision."

"I think my safety depends on how fast my reaction is," Minerva countered sarcastically.

His eyes flashed in warning, ash bursting into fire. "It's not the time for joking."

"Then when is it?" she questioned, her temper rising with his every word. "Not everyone is immortal."

"Minerva, please…"

"No, you don't have a word in this," the witch cut him off sharply. "I hear voices in my head that do not belong there, I see things I'm not supposed to, and besides that, a man tried to slice my  _bloody_  head off. I don't think it will get any worse if I join your cursed quest and destroy that  _bloody_  ring. That's why you, Gandalf the Grey, are going to let your mouth have its rest, and never try to persuade me again!"

When he finally nodded in silent agreement, Minerva turned and walked to the door of his room. When she opened them, his calm voice stopped her.

"Can't we talk about this?" he asked.

"Not this time," she answered without turning and left the room.

* * *

"Is this really necessary?" Minerva asked. "I can use magic."

She and Elrond stood under the cool shadows of tall trees, getting ready for her archery lesson. Sunlight fell upon her displeased face, her arms folded across her chest. Her elvish cloak billowed in the soft autumn breeze, her heavy leather combat boots dug the dirt bellow.

This is what the elf lord called 'appropriate attire'.

Dark trousers, shirt, light cloak, boots and beautiful, with silver embroidered bracers. She appreciated the pair of warm shoes, but the rest of the set didn't meet her taste.

"Learning some new skills won't hurt," he answered, handing her a wooden bow. "In time, it will do the exact opposite."

With a sigh, Minerva took the offered weapon. Pulling an arrow from her quiver, the witch nocked it, pointing to the ground.

She didn't have the mood for talking. Not since her argument with Gandalf. She hadn't spoken to him all day, beginning with yesterday's noon. After so many days spent together, Minerva felt quite miserable without him.

"Draw your bow," Elrond ordered, pulling her out from her musings. "Your stance should follow my example."

She nodded in answer, pulling the silver string. When she finally released it, the dark arrow crossed the air and hit a tree, right above the target.

Minerva lowered her bow with a sigh. "Of course."

"Your body is too tense," Elrond commented. "You need to relax."

"I  _am_  relaxed," she said, turning her cold gaze at him.

The elven lord walked towards her, a knowing look on his face. "Draw your bow."

Without questioning, Minerva pulled out an arrow, nocked it and drew her weapon.

"Your left arm is too high," he explained, lowering it by few inches, "while your right arm is too low." His fingers gently pushed her elbow upwards, matching the ideal height. "Your posture has to be without tension, but firm none the less."

"You already told me that," she interrupted.

"But you didn't listen," Elrond countered, slipping his boot between her legs. "The gap between your feet is too narrow," he continued, widening it with a few simple motions, "while your knees are as straight as your arrow." His hand on her shoulder pushed her downwards, for her knees to bend slightly. "Don't tilt your head or lean forward," the elf added, his fingers fixing the position of it.

"If I stay in this pose for a second more, it's going to be my grave," Minerva mumbled in discomfort.

Lord Elrond smiled at her words, his voice now softer than before. "Patience, my friend. Only one thing left to fix."

"Another one?"

"Hold your tongue," he scolded. "Now close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Soon you will understand."

Minerva did as told, holding herself from another remark.

Five minutes later, her arms grew numb, the grip on the bow loosening a bit. As she tried Elrond's breathing techniques, her body visibly relaxed, dismissing the fact that her patience grew thinner with every second.

Another five minutes had passed as the elf finally broke the silence. "Release the string."

' _Bullseye.'_

Opening her eyes, Minerva saw the same man standing before her, an arrow sticking out of his chest. His glassy irises matched in colour with his flaming hair, any trace of claret long gone. He was smiling.

Within few seconds, she pulled out another arrow, drew her bow and took a shot right between his bloody slits. She hated his smirk. She hated the mockery in his gaze. She hated  _him_.

The moment she blinked, he was gone.

"You should talk to him," Elrond finally said.

Minerva nocked another arrow. "No."

"He didn't choose to be immortal."

"He did choose not to tell," she answered, letting it fly. "And this isn't the reason why we had that argument."

"I'm well aware of that," he said. "I thought I could help you see that your reasons to stay angry with him aren't very severe."

"I'm not  _angry_  with him."

"Are you sure?"

With a frown, Minerva shot another arrow. "I know he wants me to stay here while he travels with the fellowship"—a silent curse left her mouth as it missed its target— "of course, he wishes to keep me safe. But what about him? That man is so—"

"Lower your left arm," Elrond interrupted.

"—stubborn."

"Apparently, you two are more similar than I thought," the elf said.

Minerva shot at him the infamous death glare, which usually caused people to shrink in fear. But she only saw his clear eyes shine with amusement, trying her patience once again.

Lowering her bow, the woman sighed. "Can we change the subject?"

"Of course," he answered. "But you should know, Minerva, that love can make one selfless."

She arched an eyebrow at his statement. "What should that mean?"

"Mithrandir does want to keep you safe at all costs, doesn't he?"

* * *

Sitting down beside Gandalf, Minerva looked into the eyes of none other than Boromir. They gazed at each other coldly for quite some time, before the man beside her coughed to get her attention.

Only then did she feel the tension by their table where the whole fellowship sat, including lord Elrond. Fortunately, it broke the moment her gaze turned to Gandalf, chatter once again filling the dining room.

"I'm sorry," Minerva muttered, loudly enough for only him to hear.

"Ah, my dear," the wizard answered with a smile of amusement, "we'll talk after your training."

"I don't have anything scheduled for today."

Gandalf leaned forward from his seat, his questioning gaze directed at the lord of Imladris. When the elf shook his head in negation, he straightened in his chair, an unintentional sigh escaping him.

"As I can see, Lord Elrond did not inform you about learning to wield a sword, even after I specifically asked him to." The wizard threw a cold glance towards him, before turning his eyes back to her. "Your training will start right after dinner, in the terrace. And the one you will learn from is Boromir."

Minerva's gaze turned to fall upon the Gondorian man who lowered his glass of wine.

"I'm going to test your …  _reaction_ ," he said, masked taunt in his voice.

"Use this," she answered, throwing him a silver butter knife. "Maybe it'll be harder to slice my head off."

Slamming his fist on the table, Boromir jumped on his feet, rage flickering in his irises. Without wasting any time, Minerva did the same, and before he could draw his sword, her hand slipped behind the elvish cloak and wrapped around the wooden wand.

Yet warm fingers gripped her arm as she tried to pull it out, causing her to dismiss the sudden action.

"Enough," Gandalf said, his voice too calm for her liking. "Stop acting like children and sit down. There's enough of fighting besides you two."

As his hand released the hold of hers, Minerva sunk to her chair, noticing Boromir's hesitation. Finally, with a silent curse he tore his gaze from hers and sat down.

Ten minutes of silence later, the company began dispersing. The witch was the last one to rise, right after Gandalf.

"Take it," he said, drawing out his sword. "And for the love of  _Eru Ilúvatar_ , try not to kill each other for five minutes."

Smiling softly, Minerva took Glamdring, his fingers wrapping around her own. Her emerald eyes rose to meet his ashen ones but what she saw reflecting in them caused her smile to disappear.

"Minerva, I—," he began but was interrupted by the clashing of his own sword.

With hammering heart, the woman slowly crouched and picked up the fallen weapon. Lingering in that position a minute longer than needed, she finally rose to her full height and uncertainly locked her gaze with his hurt filled one.

"— I'll meet you there," Gandalf finished simply and turned around to leave the dining room.

When Minerva was left alone to stand there, a silent curse left her mouth. She was nothing but unlucky today.

* * *

Minerva noticed how Pippin's eyes light up in joy, his golden curls fell upon his forehead as he shook with laughter at Frodo's failed attempt to draw out his sword. Merry joined him but a mere moment later, Sam's frowning face causing even Aragorn to flash a smile.

"Concentrate!" Boromir fumed, his sword clashing against Glamdring so hard it almost fell from Minerva's grip.

Her gaze turned back to look at him, coldness in her emerald eyes the reason his blows increased in strength.

Slice. Flee back. Defend.

Slice. Flee back. Defend.

Slice. Flee back—

Glamdring hit the ground with a loud crash as the cool steel of Boromir's sword licked her upper arm, knocking her weapon along.

"Pick it up," he said, his voice low and commanding. "Now."

For a single moment, Minerva caught a glimpse of how his eyes turned into two pools of crimson blood.

Something flickered within her.

A single movement of her hand and Boromir's sword had flown from his grip as Minerva threw a punch to his jaw. The force Minerva used caused the man stumble backwards, his fingers flew to cover his lower face.

Unintentionally, her hand slipped under the dark cloak, fingertips brushing against the warm wood. Her determined gaze turned to Aragorn who now shielded hobbits with his body. A single motion of his head was the answer she had hoped for.

Minerva dodged Boromir's first punch, the thought to pull out her wand long forgotten. Awarding him with a blow of her own, the witch continued to counter his quickening attacks.

As the Gondorian man made a mistake by crouching after missing a kick, the woman finally got the chance to knock him out. Using all of her strength, Minerva grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and brought her knee to his rage strained face.

Silence.

Deafening silence in which everyone stayed still, eyeing each other.

"Minerva, I-I—," Boromir tried to form a sentence. "It's—"

Letting go of the cloth around his neck, the witch lowered her leg slowly. At last, she cried out in pain.

This time she didn't hesitate to draw her wand out and point it at his throat.

The man slowly rose, holding his arms out in defense; he was very aware of the weapon against him. "Forgive me," he stammered. "It was an accident… I swear."

Trying to concentrate her gaze, Minerva felt dizziness washing over. Her irises only saw Boromir backing away, his lips moving, but he said nothing she could hear. When his figure doubled before her, the woman was breathing as if running, pain gripping her heart.

"Accident?" she inquired in a breathy whisper.

Her wand crossed the air sharply.

Before everything turned hazy and greyish, Minerva noticed how Boromir collapsed on the ground.

Spells melted from her memory as she stared at the butter knife inside her thigh. It was just a simple wound. But the sticky pool of crimson under her feet was the evidence of the opposite.

One. Two. Three.

She couldn't die of a muggle wound. Not Minerva McGonagall.

Four. Five. Six.

She counted her last steps as the familiar feeling of coldness swept up inside her.

Seven—Floor.

It was hard to breathe.

Her wand lay forgotten on the floor as her back hit the hard ground.

* * *

The moment Gandalf entered the green terrace, his heart skipped a beat.

The once silver tiles were covered in nothing but a layer of crimson, weapons lay scattered across them. Aragorn looked at him with gaping mouth, the four hobbits gathered behind his back. There were two things they were staring at.

Two bodies.

Calling out in elvish for help, Gandalf passed by Boromir's unconscious body, forgetting to mask the rage he felt inside. Swiftly, he reached Minerva. Breath hitched in his throat.

Her face was paler than it ever has been, lips crystal blue as the depths of the ocean. Her emerald eyes were still open, staring at the calm sky above. Yet they didn't move.

The sound of a curse in his mother tongue grazed his lips as Gandalf kneeled beside her barely breathing form.

Minerva took in a sharp breath of chilly air as his fingers lightly touched her thigh. A good sign.

"I'm here," he whispered, cupping her cheek lightly. "Don't worry, I'm here…"

Looking into her bright eyes, he gently pulled out the knife. Minerva flinched.

With steady fingers, Gandalf unbuckled his belt. It found a secure place around her thigh. His grey robe now lay tucked under her knee.

Direct pressure. That was the key.

"I-I can't … die y-yet," Minerva whispered with pain strained voice. The grip on her leg tightened. "Not—not yet."

_Elrond. Where was that cursed elf?_

"You're not going to leave me," Gandalf insisted. "Aragorn!"

The man answered by sprinting towards him.

"Get them away," the wizard said, eyeing the hobbits.

Nodding, Aragorn added uncertainly, "He's fine … I thought you should know."

Gandalf did not answer, and the man left without another word.

"Transfer him to the hospital wing."

The wizard breathed out in relief as he heard the elven lord talking with two healers. He was his only hope.

"Elrond!" he called out.

The elf only kneeled beside her head. "She's in shock," he stated, tracing her blue lips with his calm gaze. "She has lost too much blood."

"He hit the femoral artery, and I only slowed down the bleeding. I can't stop it."

"There's only one thing you can do," Elrond replied. Golden dagger shone in his palm. "Use your powers."

"No—"

"That's the only way she can live."

"I won't do that!" Gandalf barked in anger. "I'd have to slice her open!"

"Do it or you'll be the one arranging her funeral!" Elrond snapped, thrusting the knife into his free hand. "You have got ten seconds," he added in a softer tone.

Taking a deep breath, the wizard pulled his fingers away from the oozing wound. This had better worked.

"Hold her," he said.

With one firm movement, he tore her dark trousers. Grabbing a bottle of alcohol, Gandalf spilled it on the wound. He only heard how Minerva cried out, thrashing in Elrond's firm grip, while the elf lord tried to calm her down, his lips moving beside her ear.

"Forgive me," Gandalf whispered.

He flinched as Minerva screamed in agony, his hand shook as the dagger widened the wound. Halfway the cut, her screams turned into whimpers and grunts. Then into silence.

"She lost her consciousness," Elrond spoke.

_Good,_ Gandalf mused. Better than hear her suffer.

A single thrust and his finger was inside her thigh. A flash of heat running through his body and the artery was cauterized.

"I'm going to pull him apart," the wizard grunted under his breath. Withdrawing his finger, he washed the wound with alcohol for the second time.

"Not in here, Mithrandir," Elrond replied.

"Don't worry, I'll do it the moment we leave Imladris."

The elf shook his head. "I will take care of the wound. Let me carry her—"

"No," Gandalf cut him short. "Minerva is mine."

"Yours?"

"Mine to carry," he corrected himself. "I let this happen, so I am the one to fix it."

Gandalf cradled Minerva's body in his arms, rose to his full height and left the elf to go after.

There was only one thing he understood as he gazed at her closed eyes. He had broken his promise.

* * *

The first time Minerva awoke after almost slipping past the line of this life, the first thing she was aware of was the stinging pain paralyzing her whole body. The position she had been lying in for a few hours if she stated correctly, was nothing but discomfort, but neither did she want to shift nor she could.

The next thing the witch was aware of was someone's heating touch upon her thigh. She was  _very_  aware of that. She opened her glassy eyes slowly, blinking a few times while waiting for the information to sink in. White ceiling spun above her aching head as Minerva lazily registered the wide space around her, with rows of colourless beds and countless windows, which were letting the bothersome rays of sunshine reach her cloudy and confused gaze.

This had to be the hospital wing.

Trying not to wake all the aches and pains that for now had fallen silent, Minerva covered her face with too pale for her liking hand. Using her other elbow, she still tried to rise from the irksome position, a strand of raven hair falling upon her unfocused irises just as her head turned to look sideways.

"Let me help you," said Gandalf, a book resting in his lap. He gazed at her from beside her bed. "You ought to move as little as possible."

Gently tucking the escaped lock behind her ear, he fixed the soft pillows, helping Minerva to sit upright from her seemingly uncomfortable pose. The witch only stared at him in answer, catching the unintentional shimmer in his ashen eyes.

"Here." He snatched up a glass of water from the bedside table. "Drink it."

Gandalf helped her sip at the cold liquid, and Minerva managed a few swallows before leaning away.

"How are you feeling?" he questioned softly and slowly enough for her to process his words.

The woman looked down at herself, moving the duvet that was securely shielding her broken body. She was dressed in loose-fitting clothes, their light colour melting with the creamy sheets.

"Oh, Gods…" Minerva breathed out as a wave of coldness swept over her.

Her eyes slid down to her wounded leg, where silver trousers were rolled all the way up the middle of her thigh, and white bandage met porcelain skin. Emerald pools stopped to gaze at Gandalf's half gloved hand, lazily gliding across her covered cut.

"My skin … You're melting it," she managed, not quite trusting her voice.

Minerva locked her gaze with his, a weary smile creeping up his face. "I'm healing it."

After she eyed him carefully, a mysterious glint came to her irises as if she was about to say something sly.

"Sure you are," the witch threw three words at his face and watched how his expression changed.

Having a hard time keeping herself from laughing at his bewildered and flustered face, Minerva flashed him a smile instead, feeling her joints protest in any more difficult movement.

Frowning, Gandalf rose from his chair, laid the book on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of her bed. Her smile melted away from her face as he leaned in and whispered a few words into her ear.

Minerva couldn't hide the heat that rose inside, her mouth flying open in a response to his silent teasing. And when the man finally slid back to his place, any sound that threatened to leave her in surprise was stuck in the back of her throat, she found.

Gandalf only beamed at her softly, causing her blush to deepen in a few shades of red.

"Old fool," she mumbled under her breath.

His hand squeezed her thigh tighter. "You began first, my dear."

Drawing in a sharp breath, Minerva tore her gaze from his. The hurt was naked in her emerald eyes.

"Does it hurt?" Gandalf inquired worriedly, his fingers releasing the hold of her leg.

"I always do, don't I?" interrupted Minerva. The image of white sheets disappeared under the fresh layer of mist, and her hand deftly wiped at her eyes. "I did hit him first."

"Oh, Minerva…" The man sighed.

Gathering the broken woman in his careful and gentle embrace, Gandalf felt her wrap her shaking arms around his neck. Not a second had passed when Minerva buried her face in the heap of silver, finally letting the long concealed tears strain her porcelain skin.

"It's okay," he whispered, his caring voice muffled by strands of her raven hair. "I'm here."

His soft fingers began tracing soothing patterns along her spine, his lips resting against her head for slightest of moments. As Minerva clung to him tighter, Gandalf finally realized that this was the first time he saw her cry. And as her tears soaked through his body and right into his trembling heart, he swore with each and every one of them that he would never have to witness this again.

* * *

The second time Minerva woke up, the exact moment her eyes fluttered open she knew she was under the haze of pain relieving medicine. To her comfort, her body that had been aching all day didn't scream in discomfort as she rose from the ghostly white hospital bed.

Minerva still had to blink a couple of times as her irises attempted to get used to the almost non-existing light, before yawning and stretching her stiff limbs. The darkness around her helped her mind to register the fact that it was night … or early morning, she couldn't quite tell.

Gropingly, the witch searched for her wand on the bedside table, her fingers softly relishing the hold of the so familiar wood.

" _Lumos_ ," Minerva muttered into the silence.

Turning to her right side, she lowered her numb legs to touch the cool surface of the clear tiles. The witch still had to decide if she was lucky or not of the sudden awareness of her strange insensitiveness.

Minerva shook her head dismissively. Whoever had given her those medications must have had doubled the dose. Or tripled it.

Carefully, her hand slid along her feverish thigh, gently brushing against her bruised skin. She couldn't feel anything.

Still, the woman rolled down her silver trousers and snatched up her combat boots from the end of the bed. When she checked them out with her attentive, but greatly tardy gaze, Minerva couldn't help but grin at how clean they were. The pair was even fairer than before Elrond had presented her with them.

The witch made a mental note to thank Gandalf, before pulling on both of the boots, softly glimmering under the pale light of her wand. Minerva had laced them up securely when she heard someone's muffled voice.

Consciously, she rose to her feet, barely noticing the feeling of fur brushing against her tensed back. Her gaze fell upon the messy bed not too far beside hers; it's tangled sheets covered a figure who lay curled up in a ball. The person didn't react as Minerva's fingers came to rest upon their shoulder, gently shifting the position of the unmoving body to see the covered face.

The woman had to stifle a gasp that threatened to spill as she finally recognized the man lying beside her own bed.

Boromir.

Minerva withdrew her questing hand and stumbled back to her messed up cot. A wave of her glimmering wand and everything sunk in complete darkness, a bewildered sigh escaping her.

Few minutes had passed when the witch finally shifted in her seat, her eyes lying upon his still figure. Minerva instantaneously found herself wondering if she was relieved to see him resting in a hospital bed instead of six feet under the ground.

But the cruel realization slapped her as she understood that she wasn't relieved. Perhaps it was the intense effect of the drugs they had given her, or maybe it was the fact that she was becoming a heartless monster that made her grasp reality. But she nevertheless had to admit that she felt nothing.

Minerva swiftly rose to her feet and grabbed the furry, pleasantly smooth cloak which hung from the edge of her bed. She felt a great urgency for fresh air.

But before the witch fled from the dim hospital wing, she threw a single glance at the bundle of sheets; Minerva watched Boromir's back expand as he inhaled, then his shoulder lower again as he exhaled. Swallowing the feeling of guilt, she turned and left without any irritating thoughts pursuing after.

When the witch passed the guards of Imladris who were settled by the main entrance, her mind was already concentrated on fighting off the weariness, the evident side effect of the medicaments. Climbing down the alabaster staircase, Minerva felt that it was raining. Truth to be told, she noticed it. Drops splashed in all direction from her bare skin, but the uncomfortable feeling of dampness never reached her through the haze of painkillers.

Her emerald eyes rose to meet the gloomy sky; the first trace of sunlight had already gently dyed it in shimmering gold, melting the ashen veil above. Abruptly, Minerva caught herself dreaming about a certain pair of colour changing eyes.

Her soft steps gradually diminished as the wandering woman realized that she would definitely knock into something if she continued to pace with so distracted mind.

Leaning her back against the cardinal oak tree, Minerva laughed at how foolish she was. After all these days spent with Gandalf, she at last realised what her true feelings towards her saviour were. And she only managed to grasp it with the help of a toxic dose of drugs. She clearly wasn't the wisest witch of her generation; the woman still recalled how Albus had the tendency to call her that.

She now knew why Gandalf's eyes adjusted their colour. At first, from the very beginning of their unlikely friendship, Minerva had seen him as the warmer version of Albus; his irises had been blue, his traits had matched the ones of the last wizard, and he had had that familiar pitch in his voice.

Throughout their journey together she had observed the weird change of two sapphires turning darker, the twinkle in them had become a flickering fire. When Gandalf had eventually gazed at her after he had been healed by Elrond, his eyes had been silver, the glimmer in them had been completely covered by the pleasant flame which Minerva had become truly fond of.

She had likewise noticed how his voice had grown silvery; it now held more affection than ever. And in time the witch had finally discovered his traits, hidden under the shadow of her past. From time to time, Gandalf could be brusque and assertive, but Minerva had learned that he was quick to laugh, particularly tender, and immensely blunt. All of those things made him distinct from Albus. They made him different.

Gandalf the Grey was the one who had changed the rhythm of her shattered heart, had healed her broken soul, and had pushed the haunting image of lost love out of her once dim mind.

And when Minerva sooner or later felt the effect of medicaments gradually wear off, she softly whispered a single sentence, "I prefer grey."

* * *

Minerva was gone.

Gandalf had tripped two times over the furniture that adorned his own quarters before he pulled on his lazily discarded boots. His hands blindly unsheathed Glamdring that had lain forgotten nearby the messed up bed; the man didn't even have any time to think of what he was wearing.

"You shouldn't have pulled me out of the hospital wing," he grunted under his breath, walking past the elf lord and into the dim hall. "I knew this was meant to happen."

"I gave her three times the dose," Elrond answered and closed the door after the man. "Minerva was supposed to be out cold for at least two days."

Gandalf snorted in answer. "I assume you have misheard my earlier statement of how Minerva is not a simple woman," he said, his cool voice dull under the sound of their boots thumping against the tiles.

"She never was, was she?" the elf mused rhetorically.

The pair paused before the main staircase, a group of scouts had joined them in the cool air of early morning. It was freezing outside, not to forget the torrential downpour over all of them. They had to hasten.

"I will look in the gardens," Gandalf spoke. "There's no time to waste."

Elrond nodded in return, and the wizard slid down the porcelain stairs.

Within a few minutes of trekking, the cold rain had cut through his thin dressing gown and prickled at his skin, soaking the bright bandages that crossed his wounded chest. Large drops of the inessential shower had dampened his silver mane, he could barely see through the curtain of his slick hair. Icy water was trickling down his face, irritating his ashen eyes and causing his bare skin to tingle in discomfort.

"Looking for someone?"

Gandalf almost laughed out loud as his gaze fell upon Minerva's pacing figure, properly covered by the drenched fur cloak. She had found him first.

By the time the woman reached him, her eyes already had traced his soaked to skin body, and he could feel his heart beating harder than before as the witch ahead of him absorbed the image of fabric clinging to his firm form. And when her emerald irises slid across the frame of his damp face, he observed the extraordinary change in the depths of the two pools across him.

Taking her final step towards Gandalf, Minerva pulled him into a sudden, but more than welcome embrace, her patterned arms carefully locking around his broad shoulders. His fingers had freed Glamdring from their grip, the forgotten sword now lay on the soft ground as his hands grasped at her freezing back.

Her touch felt frosty, but his own clutch on her body was warm, and his strong, drenched from rain arms seemed very protective as he held her as close to him as possible. The man felt her relax against his chest, and a single shiver ran down her spine.

When Minerva eventually pulled away from his particularly heated body, her hands slipped up from his shoulder blades and down his dripping wet chest, tightly tangling in the heap of his midnight blue dressing gown.

"Your eyes are grey," Minerva stated the obvious; her cool palm had risen to cup his bearded cheek.

Without thought, Gandalf leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, finally shattering the tension that had prickled at his skin for far too long. Emerald green eyes fluttered closed as Minerva returned the vigorous, maddeningly sensual kiss, his desperate grip on her form tightening in return.

His heated breath on her slightly trembling lips was drugging, intoxicating even, and as Minerva felt the marginal resinous odour on his skin, she couldn't hold back the shivering moan that left her. And soon enough, the sense of rain soaking through their damp clothes melted from their mind, the raw feeling of frozen limbs had been covered under the heat of their bodies.

As both of them lightly redrew from the lingering kiss, Gandalf managed to whisper against her wet lips, "I'm in love with you, Minerva McGonagall."

With a smile that adorned her features, the woman answered rather breathlessly, "I'm in love with you, too."

"Good," he murmured with a grin, before pulling her into another devastating kiss.

All of their troubles had disappeared as she tangled her fingers in the slick curtain of his hair, feeling of safety flooding her lost soul. Surely, Minerva had her demons, Gandalf had his, but future didn't seem as dark as prior to their confessions. And for the moment, both of them were ecstatic to be wrapped in the loving arms of the other.

* * *

His fingers lazily traced the azure patterns on her skin, faintly absorbing every scant scar on her exposed arms. He had perceived the weariness of her relaxed body, and he eventually decided to let the woman beside him drowse for a few more hours.

As he pressed a tender kiss to the top of her raven head, he heard Minerva murmur a few words against the silver pillow, firmly pulled against her chest. She shifted in her sleep, and Gandalf heard her breathing change. He cursed under his breath as he felt her fingers entwine around his forearm, carefully draped lengthwise along her ribs.

"Stay," she coaxed, her silent voice thick with sleep.

The man sighed and leaned closer to her back, pressing his lips to the soft groove of her shoulder. "I have a meeting in ten minutes," he said.

"We've been sleeping for an hour—"

"—and a half."

Minerva slowly rolled her shoulder back, twisting enough to look back at him. Her eyelids were heavy, but she still managed to keep her emerald irises open.

"Breakfast?" she asked, a small grin adorning her face.

Chuckling, Gandalf softly redrew his hands from her frame, eventually rising to sit in an upright position.

"I'll bring it especially for you, my love," he said, alluringly stretching his back. "Are you willing to wait for a couple of hours?"

With a snort, Minerva shifted back to her cozy position and felt her eyelids begin to sink lower with every moment that had passed. She was never completely awake to begin with.

"You wish," she mumbled.

A minute after, the woman sensed Gandalf stumble out of the four poster bed, his bare feet tapping against the smooth rug. It didn't take a lot of time for him to gather and idly pull on his scattered clothes.

Sooner or later, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, his fingers resting against her cheek. "Don't even think about walking," he warned. "I'll take a look at your leg after I come back."

"I love you, too," Minerva said, never opening her eyes.

With a smile, Gandalf rose to his feet and left his bedroom, her lying form the last thing he saw before closing the door.

Left alone to drink in the gentle quiet of the morning, the witch gritted her teeth in the renewed spasms of searing pain, lingering across her tender flesh. Every single thought of dozing off was lost as Minerva felt her wounded leg throbbing and burning, ache rippling from her hip to her seemingly sturdy shoulder.

Rising from the pools of balmy sheets, she swallowed a cry of a sharp twinge in her sore ribcage, grasping her side in instinct. A perfect way to begin a new day.

In the space of an hour, Minerva somehow managed to take a bath, return to her own quarters, and grab a change of attire. She gladly put away the appalling hospital clothes, using a set of gloomy emerald robes as a substitute.

Only silence met her ears as the woman stepped into the hall behind the door, her careful pacing directed towards the place where she lay a mere evening before. Her jaw clenched tightly in response at the severe pain, but even though it was agony to take a single step, Minerva did not limp. And when she reached the entrance of the hospital wing, she pushed the white door open in hopes she wouldn't have to silence her suffering.

She was wrong.

A pair of piercing eyes met hers in a duel of gazes, and although his blue irises defeated hers in width, she couldn't quite suppress her own astonishment. Minerva caught the exact moment when Boromir's eyebrows shot upwards; he had undeniably noticed her agile bearing.

"How are you walking?" he asked in disbelief.

Taking her final steps towards the bed beside his, the witch scoffed. "With my legs."

The man blatantly stared at her, a frown forming on his colour drained brow. His pale skin practically correlated with the light gauze across his torso.

"Aren't you supposed to be in pain?" he tried once again, his steely gaze following her steady movements in order to find her lost wand.

"Who says I'm not?" Minerva said plainly.

"Your brisk gait."

The woman finally grabbed her weapon from the lowest drawer of the bedside table, a bothered sigh escaping her in answer to his words. "If I am capable of concealing my pain, it doesn't mean that I'm not suffering," she said, her expressionless eyes locking with his briefly intimidated ones. Boromir was well acquainted with her powers.

"How are you feeling?" he asked after a moment, his voice cold and silent, but not silent enough for her to ignore.

"It depends," she replied, straightening her posture from beside his bed. "Tell me, are you inquiring out of politeness or because you care?"

"You can guess."

Minerva paused for a bit. "Like I've been stabbed with a butter knife."

Nodding her farewell, the woman turned to take her leave.

"I need to talk to you," he said after her.

"You're in no position to require anything," she answered. "But perhaps we could arrange something after you pull your head out of your arrogant arse."

Not staying to loiter, Minerva retreated from the light hospital wing, her fingers tightly clutching at her wand in consolation.  _That stiff-necked—_

"I presume he did not apologize." Gandalf made his presence known.

The woman raised her emerald eyes to meet the grey frame of the wizard lurking before her. He wore a brooding expression on his face; his gaze was black, dark even. Enmity and exhaustion were coming off of him in crashing waves.

"Why would you assume that?" she answered with a question of her own, reaching his grave figure.

"You did entitle him a—"

Minerva clamped her palm over his open mouth, her ablaze eyes flashing in an abrupt warning. "You don't need to repeat it out loud," she said, letting go of his face. "How do you even  _know_  things like this?"

"One of the benefits to being a wizard," Gandalf whispered distantly, almost like an afterthought. "You shouldn't be walking."

"I also shouldn't be seeing your brooding gaze," she said.

Taking no notice of her words, he gently grasped her hand, and with a soft tug led her through the last steps to his quarters. He obviously wasn't in the mood for arguing, and Minerva didn't actually bother trying to question his unusual actions.

When both of them entered his living room, Gandalf sat her down on the blue armchair, grabbing his brown bag along the way. He crouched before her, her own eyes tracing the disturbing change of his once so soft features. His hands hitched her emerald robes up, fingers lightly gliding against her porcelain skin. Minerva couldn't hold her tongue back.

"I hope this doesn't count as breakfast."

The man smiled at her remark, his eyes too preoccupied with observing the dark stitches upon her thigh to raise and meet her gaze. "What else do you hope for?"

"Food, preferably," she said and felt him apply a rather cold salve across her wound. "With my grouchy lover beside me."

Gandalf fastened a bandage on her thigh and gently smoothed the dark layers of fabric back to their place. "Not an offer I shall decline." He tilted his head to look at her, the same flicker of fire in his bright grey eyes. Hardly rising from his low position, he pressed his forehead against her collarbone, his fingers resting at the heap of her robes.

"If you desire to be silent, I understand," she said softly, her cool palms tightly pressed to his warm neck. "But if you need to spill your sorrow out, remember that I'm always here for you."

Lifting his head to flash an appreciative smile at her, Gandalf tenderly answered, "I love you."

"I know." Minerva simpered. "And I also know that you won't feel your knees if you stay in this position for a minute longer."

The man snorted in answer, eventually pulling her in for a kiss. "I'll serve the table," he said softly.

Gandalf grimaced as he tried to rise to his full height, hissing a low phrase in his mother-tongue as all of the aches and stings from kneeling on the hard ground came back to haunt the set of his lower joints.

"Told you," teased Minerva, her eyes glimmering for a moment. "Is age finally catching up with you?"

Grunting in response, he turned around and carefully reached the round table where porcelain dishes had been waiting to be filled. "If I recall correctly, last night you struck an entirely different note," he said, hiding his radiant expression from her piercing eyes.

"Then I can only assume that last night was too much for you, Mithrandir."

Minerva heard him laugh at her witty comment, a smile of delight finding its way on her own face. But her mirth was short lived as laughter died from Gandalf's lips, his body slowly turning to meet hers.

"I know what you think of," he said seriously, "but if you dare to move from that armchair, I shall get you a cane."

"A cane?" Minerva raised an eyebrow.

With a smile, he added, "And I just might let Elrond choose it."

That's all it took to convince the witch before him.

They had had breakfast. Both of them found themselves preoccupied with different tasks in order to have more or less space to sort out the irksome thoughts, causing disarray in the depths of their mind. While Gandalf gained his peace from the soothing drops, lightly dancing across his body, Minerva found hers in observing the mesmerizing flow of the crystal water veil, noticing how much power held the cascading waterfall.

The witch received the answer to her thoughts as she heard a knock on the door.

Minerva withdrew from the luminous balcony, mildly struggling with adjusting her own weight to lift off any additional pressure from her wounded leg. As she opened the door, her gaze yet again met Boromir's towering figure.

"Are you lost?" she inquired, her expressionless face barely unsettling the man before her.

"I would like to have a word with you, if I may?" he said, and when Minerva nodded in agreement, he added, "Where's Gandalf?"

"Still taking a shower, I hope."

"That's good," he said, for a single moment relief easing his hard expression. "I figured you'd be here, you know—"

"I thought Elrond told you that," Minerva drawled.

"Look, it wasn't as easy to come here as you think—"

"It did take you a few hours," gibed she at his effort to keep his voice even.

Boromir's eyes flashed in anger, but it only took a moment for it to wash away as fast as it had come. He sighed in despair. "I apologize, Minerva," he intoned. "You have the right to forgive me not, but I still apologize for what I have done. I am an arrogant fool."

The witch almost laughed at his offered apology for the unintended consequences, the mask of coldness had been swept away with the last of his words.

"It's a rare pleasure to hear you admit your faults, but I have nothing to forgive you for," she admitted lightly.

He looked rather perplexed by her words. "But I stabbed you —  _with a butter knife_."

"And I punched you before I sliced you open," she replied. "I assume we're even."

"Oh…" he trailed in an inaudible whisper.

"Anything else?"

"No— I mean yes," he spluttered; her words obviously had had an effect upon him. "I want to give you this."

Boromir exposed a dark sword sheath, stretching his hands before her. Minerva eyed him with astonishment, and deftly raised an eyebrow. "A sword?" she inquired.

"I did notice that you don't have one and I decided to provide you with one of mine," he explained with a smile. "I don't trust the elvish blade."

"So I can take this as a further invite to learn to wield a sword?"

Handing her the weapon, he answered, "I would have gifted you with a dagger instead if that was not my intention."

Ignoring his remark, Minerva traced the Gondorian sword before her eyes rose to meet his. "Thank you."

"Mention not," Boromir said. "And by the way, I'd also like to apologize for trying to slice your head off."

For a minute, both of them were silent. "I had almost forgotten about the council meeting… " she confessed. "But I understand. That ring had an effect on all of us."

Nodding, he held out his hand stiffly for her to take. "I'm not used to apologizing," he said, shaking her hand. "We'll meet at the dinner."

He smiled at her one last time before turning and leaving her alone to stand in the doorway.

With a sigh, Minerva closed the door, spinning around to meet Gandalf's smirking figure.

"What colour would you like your cane to be?"

* * *

The witch hummed lightly as she drowned in her own thoughts, swiftly making her way back from the dark gardens of Rivendell.

A blissful week had passed in a blink of an eye, and Minerva had managed to fully recover from the severe wound. Four days ago she had returned to her usual routine, which included archery and sword wielding, alongside with the tedious meetings of the fellowship. To Minerva's misery, the latter ones had only increased in count after Lord Elrond declared the date of their depart.

So much for Gandalf's wish to keep her safe.

When he had finally come to the conclusion that Minerva was not one to be preserved, he had surrendered to her words. And although he had given her space and had let her walk by herself, his misty figure had always been by her side, if she would ever need his help. He had been with her for the weaponry trainings, he had been with her in time for dinner, he had been the one who held her at night. Gandalf had barely left her side, but despite his constant dodging her questions for the reason behind it, she hadn't had an excuse to complain.

And even if the fellowship was to depart within a few days, Minerva couldn't deny that the past week had been one of a kind.

Before she had even reached the alabaster staircase, Minerva's trail of thoughts was long gone. To her surprise, she hadn't noticed the tall physiognomy looming before her, her left shoulder now throbbing in discomfort. Muttering an apology, she collected herself together and kneeled to gather her fallen bow. But the stranger was a tad faster.

"Did it hurt?" the man inquired.

Kind of unsettled by his sudden question, Minerva felt her eyebrows rise slightly. "What did?"

His eyes drifted across the small uncovered patch on her forearm, drinking in the gentle glow of the teal patterns. "To ink your skin like this," he barely intoned.

Her body tensed at his raw gaze, satisfaction naked in his irises. "No, not that I remember," she answered.

Both of them slowly rose, and he briskly handed her the wooden bow, his fingers lingering on it longer than was needed. In the darkness of the night, Minerva couldn't make out his features, but judging from the reddish scar across his face, and the length of his hair—he wasn't an elf.

"Rather interesting…" he mumbled to himself. "Are you from here?"

"I'm fairly local."

To Minerva's uneasiness, his hands lightly moved, and she abruptly found herself jumping back in horrifying shock. The man rebounded against the ground, his hands blindly grasping at the almost fatal arrow, resting in the warm flesh of his neck. His tortured gaze slowly turned to her, and for a single moment she felt as if air had been knocked out of her own set of lungs, and the constantly growing pools of darkness that had blurred the pure tiles belonged not to him—

A rough grip on her shoulders tore Minerva from the distorted image of the two bloodshot eyes.

"Snap out of it!" Gandalf's voice clawed through the veil of fog that her mind had become. "We have to go!"

He half pulled, half dragged her from the lifeless body that had by now burned into the back of her eyelids. And even after all would be over, Minerva would never discover the reason why a death of a stranger had affected her beyond anything she had ever imagined.

"Rivendell is under attack…" His words echoed in her droning ears.

"Where's Frodo?" she requested, tightening the desperate grip on his arm.

Momentarily, Gandalf turned to look at her. "He's safe," he assured. "You're the one they're hunting."

Her throat suddenly grew dry.

"They believe that you have the one ring," the man avowed, his tiresome jogging coming to an end. "Do you remember the last place we visited? In the forest?" With Minerva's nod, he continued, "Don't turn around and don't stop, no matter what. I'll find you there."

"No."

Minerva was amazed by how fragile her attempted protest had sounded beside his calm words. She would never flee.

"I need you to run, Minerva," Gandalf stressed, his voice mingled with the heavy steps that approached nearer with every moment. "Run."

He released her hand.

Her emerald eyes caught a final glimpse of steel shimmering in his hand as Minerva pulled herself from the bleak hall and around the corner.

Not slowing down for a single moment, she ran until her lungs demanded for her to put an end to the frantic pace. Trying to catch her breath, she leaned against a wall, her fingers searching for her most trusted weapon.

Her wand was gone.

Minerva coursed a hand through her hair in despair, calling out the summoning charm. Refusing to waste any more time, she gripped her bow tighter and once again began running. Ultimately, the witch figured that either her powers were gone or someone was foolish enough to block her charms.

The latter one was very much possible.

Halls… Stairs… Splattered walls… Silence… Blood… Bodies…

Turning around the corner, Minerva ran into a stranger with a dagger. Their encounter didn't last as long as the one before her had intended, the silver knife had swiftly carved his own throat. Brushing off the cold sweat from her brow, she gripped the new weapon tighter, continuing her striding.

Third of a second later, her eyes had perceived Boromir's fighting frame, and now she was trying to get a clear aim at the figure he was wrestling. Her drawn bow silently hummed in response to the flying arrow that had pierced the defeated foe.

"Are you out of your mind?!" chided Boromir, reaching her in a few long strides. "Those killing machines are searching for you, and you decide to stop and fight them?!"

Sudden rage threatened to erupt Minerva as his words chopped the threatening silence. "Do you think I will flee while you all fight? Do you think I cannot defend myself?" she demanded coldly.

"I know you can," he said, "but I won't be able to look into Gandalf's eyes if you shall get yourself killed."

Once again heavy footsteps shattered the stillness of the dark hall, cutting off Minerva's protests, and Boromir's persuasion. Giving a nod of surrender, she trusted the ashen dagger into his grip.

"Good luck," the witch wished him.

Jogging through the labyrinths of Rivendell, Minerva anew worked to reach the other end of Imladris. It was crystal clear that all of the exits were ruled out, and there was only one place she could make a dash towards.

Taking a sharp turn, the woman ran back to the set of stairs she had left behind her. The arrow she had nocked lay still in her drawn bow as a familiar shade of blonde shimmered before her eyes. Her masked target had been tackled on the ground by Legolas, his golden dagger executed the person below.

"You better get out of here, lass," Gimli's voice reached her in the dim light of the moon. "We'll show those Mordor scums how to ambush us!"

Stepping over a blank-eyed woman, Minerva cleared her way towards the final steps that led to the roof of Rivendell. Swallowing the feeling of guilt, she nodded at the two of them and began climbing.

"He'll be the one who gets killed, if anything," Gimli said after her.

Smiling in return, the witch heard how Legolas mumbled a low phrase in elvish before she pulled herself on the roof.

"Get her!"

Minerva cursed as she heard a man roar.

Rising to her feet, she briefly gazed behind her shoulder, her eyes regarding the four figures that aimed at her. Not waiting for the rain of arrows, the woman fled across the ridge of the steep roof, concentrating her sharp mind on turning herself into her animagus form.

Someone was undoubtedly cutting off her magic.

Yanking off the leather quiver from her back, Minerva would have laughed at insane her idea was, if her lungs hadn't been aching for the past few minutes. Taking a sharp turn to her right, she lithely slid down the dark side of the roof, just in time jumping on the other covering. Arising and pulling out the last of her arrows, the witch carefully reached the opposite side, and, without any doubt crossing her mind, Minerva leaped from the edge of the roof.

Drowning in the colourless depths of the biting water, she shut down the illusionary sensation of instantaneous fear, and fought her way back to the surface. Emerging with a sharp inhale of air, the woman locked her jaw against chattering teeth, feeling bones shake under her drenched skin. Very aware of the fact that she had lost her quiver in the lather of the cascading waterfall behind her, Minerva passed the last trinity of her arrows to her other hand that held the light bow, and promptly swam to the rocky coast.

For a few seconds, she simply breathed in the gentle silence of the night, steadying her weary posture. Pressing her cool palm to the blazing wound on her neck, the witch examined its severity. As she added more pressure to the oozing cut, Minerva noticed that the one who had shot her tore a considerable chunk of her sensitive flesh.

Gritting her teeth in the burning ache, she soaked her besmeared with blood hands in the stream of water.

Her drying charm had worked, but the frostiness nevertheless lingered on her skin.

Eventually, the woman was forced to nock an arrow, and draw her bow to aim at the figures who ran across the fields to reach her. Using two of her darts, Minerva definitely illuminated her presence as a pair of her executors collapsed on the green grass. Her tensed fingers pulled back the feather of the last fatal arrow and it was sent flying from the string.

As the body sprawled on the ground, Minerva felt arms grab her from the back, immediately pulling her behind the nearest tree. A black bolt grazed her upper arm muscle, but the witch only perceived the wild thumping of her heart as a rain of arrows pierced the raw layers of the forest around. With relief, her eyes observed how an invisible force sent a double in amount avalanche of darts back.

"You should know better than to pounce on me, Lord Elrond," she said as her gaze followed the small group of elves ambushing the ranks of the foe.

Sensing the reduce of the danger, he mumbled against her ear in answer, "And you should know better than to fight them." He carefully eyed the scarlet gash on her throat. "We'll buy you a fair amount of time to reach—"

"Wait …" she whispered in disbelief. "That's … That's Gandalf's sword — That's Glamdring! They—" Her voice trailed off.

Elrond's grip on her tightened, his body clearly tensed at the image of smeared with dark crimson masks, teasingly hovering before his lost eyes. The roughly apparent glow of Glamdring crushed them with a single glance thither, albeit blood trickled down against the cool steel, blurring the identifying runes. But there was no mistake that it was his sword.

Through a haze of abrupt bewilderment, Minerva found herself drowning in an odd and barely familiar sensation, its force gnawing at her parched throat, her chest tight under the fabric of her shirt and agonizingly set aflame. With a sharp breath of air that chillingly carved her insides, she gave in to the torturing clawing at her hammering heart.

After what appeared to be a century of ringing in her ears, Elrond turned her to face him, and Minerva regarded the tight dilation of his wild eyes.

"Call them off," she said with stunning evenness in her voice. Her bow dropped by her feet.

Taking no notice of her words, Elrond tried to hold her in place. "Minerva, we can't assume anything—" he attempted to stop her with his words, but she was already free of his grip.

The witch gently unclasped her warm cloak, easing it off with a shrug, and swiftly handed the light cloth to the one before her. For what felt like an hour, both of them purely gazed at each other — eyes locked in an intense battle, struggling to keep the upper hand on the other. But she was too fierce for him to overcome.

The elf lord submitted to the consuming, hidden behind the square glasses shimmer that seemed to be overwhelming his mind with an incredible ease. His blank gaze observed the terrifying hardness in her eyes — the pair had become emotionless pools of darkness, the kind and captivating teal green of her irises now invisible under the veil of ghostly black.

"Call them off," Minerva repeated. Without breaking their gaze, she handed him her glasses. "I'd rather break them not."

Elrond commanded in elvish, his loud voice interrupting the intense battle that seethed behind their shielded backs. Briefly the elf tried to form a sentence, but her piercing eyes had petrified his once so eloquent, with silver embroidered tongue.

Steeling herself, Minerva left the elven lord with his hypnotic thoughts, and emerged from the concealing darkness that had been swallowing the cloudy light, gently overflowing the greenery of the forest. It took less than a breath for every single individual to turn at her, a light whir of drawn bowstrings softly invading her particularly tender sense of hearing.

Unlike her, the troop of elves slowly backed away from the enemy, daring not to turn their back on their sharp bows. Striding in a confident manner, Minerva found Aragorn's dark physiognomy, hidden in the heights of the waterfall, the dull tip of an arrow shining in the moonlight. At a completely different angle stood Legolas, his drawn weapon had swiftly found its target.

She wasn't going to let them intervene.

As her pace gradually decelerated, she had already scanned the ones that faintly tried to threaten her with their puny weapons — eight human beings, all of them masked, seemingly fearless, yet the traitorous stench of fright came off of them in waves. Three of the octet were women; their slightly more graceful poses stood out from the crowd.

Three foes on her left, two of them men. The one who stood closer had a sword in his hand, the kneeling in the river one — aimed at her with his bow. The woman who stood with her angle leaning a bit more to the right — no doubt a consequence of the broken arrow that lay by her feet — targeted at Minerva's head, neglecting the obvious pain.

The man before whom the witch hovered, the condemned one, held Gandalf's sword, inevitably incurring her wrath. Behind his ravaged shoulders, Minerva could see a crouching woman — she was hip deep in the unpleasantly frosty water, her bow directed barely above the man's whose back she protected right shoulder blade. She was Aragorn's potential target. Not too far beside Minerva stood another female warrior, her threatening stance concealing the terror she sustained, even with a sword hilt within her fingers grasp.

The last two armoured men who were positioned on her right eyed her with a visible contempt — they had probably expected a bit more than an unarmed woman whose clothes were covered in crimson. Surveying her from behind their acute arrows, they both took no notice of Legolas' lurking form on the stone bridge, his bowstring as tightly drawn as theirs.

This was going to be a child's play.

"Minerva McGonagall…" the man before her trailed, his voice revealing a note of satisfaction.

"It does have a pleasant ring to it, doesn't it?" she said; her eyes hypnotically bore into his. "What a fine sword you have … May I inquire how did you obtain it?"

"Slaughtered its owner, of course."

With a frigid expression, Minerva whispered, "I shall  _reward_  you for that."

For half a second everything stilled completely, atmosphere thickening in the anticipation for the upcoming clash of forces, until, in infernal shimmer of steel, it burst into pieces, drawing each and every one of the present in for a battle.

Mid-step backwards from the blade, Minerva caught two arrows that flew at her general direction. Spinning, she threw them back. Pierced through, a pair of archers found their rest on the ground.

Seizing Glamdring by its incisive edge, she tore it out from the man's tight grip. The witch swiftly whacked him with the handle. While he staggered, she readjusted the position of the sword and sliced his neck. Grabbing his beheaded body, Minerva used it as a shield from the incoming arrows.

Block. Dodge. Avoid.

She sighed. They had too much ammunition.

Advancing, Minerva let go of the corpse. Bashing the swordswoman in the head, she momentarily knocked her out. With a grunt, the witch let her sword fly. Another archer choked on his blood.

Take a sharp turn. Dodge. Fly further.

The female archer had only one dart left.

Running through the rocky coast, Minerva reached her opponent. With a single movement, she wrenched off her drawn bow. Bending, she elbowed the woman under the chin, feeling her own hair ruffle from the force of the impact.

Minerva dove under her spread out arm. Turning, she released the dark string of the bow. The woman fell into the stream, soiling its purity.

The witch whirled around, her body shuddering with the sudden limitless power. She smirked.

The last archer bolted towards her, splashing water all over. Minerva punched him in the temple as he tried to assault her with a dagger.

"Get it out of my way," she sneered.

The man lunged at her. His knife made a contact with her face. She disregarded the bleeding wound. Dark plasma obscured her vision.

Without a sound, Minerva grabbed his frozen in mid-action arm. He tried to struggle but stopped — perhaps he understood that he was as good as dead. Pulling it, she kicked him flat in the chest, shattering his set of ribs. A guttural scream stuffed her ears as his arm detached from the rest of his body.

Gaining her posture and pace back, Minerva threw the limb into the water. She stunned him; he screamed. The witch forced him to turn, then wrapped her arms around him. His neck snapped like a tree branch.

Silence.

Another body fell into the water.

Two were left.

Rushing, Minerva summoned Glamdring. It clashed against another blade. She avoided one blow, only to feel an additional one.

The woman before her flamed with rage, but the witch was stronger. Shoulder blades, right side, forearm, face, thigh — all had been sliced by Minerva's skilled hand. With a groan, she pushed the swordswoman into a tree. As her foe began sinking to her knees, she impaled her with Glamdring, nailing her to the wood.

Her hammering heart threatened to erupt from her ribcage, blood trickling down her glutinous face. Rolling up the sleeves of her shirt, Minerva carefully turned to face the last of her enemies.

" _You tore them all over a sword?!_ " he roared.

In less than a beat, she answered, "I did."

" _You murderer!_ " He dropped his sword on the ground. " _Come here and finish me off!_ "

Under the dark mask, his eyes lit up in rage.

" _Do it!_ " he screamed. " _You killed them all — they had families …_   _they were to come back!_ "

The burning, clawing sensation slowly released its grip on Minerva's heart, taking away the tightness of her chest and deserting her outworn body. As she listened to his maddening cries, her eyes retrieved the emerald shimmer that dispelled the smoke of ebony blankness.

Her irises shone with unforeseen tears.

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer … She was a murderer.

" _When the time comes, you're going to kneel before Sauron!"_ His lips snarled with anger. " _You're going to beg for your death before the end, Minerva McGonagall!"_

The witch struggled to keep her own fury at the bay, but her eyes were suddenly dry.

"You better remember my name, little brat," she hissed. "I won't  _kneel_  before anyone."

With a grunt, he fled towards her. A backhand slap took him down to eat dirt, his mask soared through the air.

"You  _monster_ …" he choked out.

Diving out from under the veil of anger, Minerva took a sharp breath of air. A monster with razor sharp teeth stormed beneath her skin — it wielded her body, clouded her heart. The witch tried to keep it caged deep inside her, but she had no control.

The man unsteadily rose to his feet. The evident wrath within his gaze fended the drawing nigh darkness. The redness of his long hair caused her to shudder. His eyes — two pools of familiar crimson — resurrected the fresh memories from within her depths.

She had almost forgotten  _his_  face.

In two long strides he was beside her, his nails digging into her shoulders.

"You heartless monster … " he slurred against her ear.

Minerva stared.

She stared before herself, her mouth tightly shut. Her green eyes were drained from the mild shine, instead replaced by emptiness.

Monster.

Omitting the scorching sensation of his teeth feasting upon her throat, she laughed. Mirth rumbled through her chest as he tore away a chunk of flesh from her body.

Monster.

Minerva laughed as he spat her blood on the grass under his legs. She laughed until reaching the edge of insanity.

Monster.

Her laughter turned into a prolonged sigh — her hands trembled.

"Heartless…" she whispered.

Without any sound, her fingers shattered his sternum into pieces, digging deep inside his being. Her obsidian eyes bore into his wide with horror ones, watching how they slowly rolled back in torment. She watched how bestially he fought for breath against the flood of burning liquor that filled his mouth. She watched him fade.

Her hand violently pulled back, ripping out the only thing that differenced him from her. His lifeless corpse collapsed before her feet.

As her body tensed with madness, Minerva felt the monster desert her.

Blood dripped down her arms. It soaked into her clothes, trickling from her throat. It covered her face.

The heart in her hand gave its last beat. She let it drop beside his wide-eyed form.

Monster.

Minerva turned away from him and the darkness of the lonely forest. Pairs of eyes were fixed upon her from afar.

The world slowed around, a sound of her name being called fading in and out.

Then she felt it.

A cold tip of an arrow lingeringly tore through the layers of her flesh, cracking her spine, hidden between her shoulder blades. The sharpness of the dart dug further inside her back until she felt the shaft cease upon piercing her beating heart. Blood seeped into her shred shirt.

Silence hung in the air.

Ahead of her making a hard contact with the ground, a person slid on his knees before her, catching her mid-fall. Arms wrapped around her prone frame as she finally sunk to her knees, eyes blank from pain. Her head lay against his chest.

"Minerva," he whispered.

Only one man could say her name this way.

His fingers cupped her splattered with scarlet cheek, forcing her away from his body, searching for her face. His wild grey eyes bore into her emerald ones, pleading for her to stay awake.

Her less numb hand rose to tangle into a lock of his silver hair. "You're a-alive … " she said with her last breath.

His pleading eyes shone with unshed tears, horror written across his expression.

"Min-" he choked out.

Her vision was overcome by utter darkness, the fairness of ashen grey fading out, never to return.

"I'm alive ... " he whispered. "I'm alive, Minerva … "

With disbelief, he looked into her blank eyes, swallowing the lump in his tight throat.

"Please …" he trailed, pulling her to his chest. "Please, Minerva, wake up … don't leave me..."

His whole body shook as he choked on air, taking in the blackness of her raven hair. His face was stained with tears and blood as he sat crying on the green ground, begging for her to wake up, but he couldn't care less.

Gandalf the Grey couldn't save her.


	7. No sanity left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minerva is left to deal with PTSD and a betrayal, all the while struggling with blood of eight people on her hands. And on top of that, she finally learns truth about herself and the spell. Will she be able to find her peace?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good luck reading!  
> (P.S. the parts in Italic are dreams, visions. (You'll understand))  
> TRIGGER WARNING: PTSD, DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF PANIC ATTACK, ALCOHOLISM, AND RECOVERY!

Indigo light blinded Minerva's misty vision. Her tensed body felt unbelievably cold and weary, lying sprawled on the hard tiles that made her back ache in discomfort. Emerald eyes blinked in an attempt to get accustomed to the brightness around, gradually focusing on the unbelievably starry sky above. Pain arose behind her eyes as colours of the night giddily weaved.

Her eyelids sunk down.

"Spent out, are you?" a solemn voice said.

A shiver ran down Minerva's numb spine. "An arrow to a heart does that, I assume," she whispered.

She felt the stranger smile at her sadly. "Even in the halls of the dead you cannot withhold your sharp tongue."

Her emerald eyes fluttered open. "Perhaps it may be the last thing that keeps me from fulfilling the sudden need to cry my soul out." Despite her attempts to force the tears away, the image of the stars had disappeared in the mist. "Not that it's working."

Relieved from the once great pain, Minerva rose to an upright position. Her blank eyes with abandon surveyed the grand halls, but nothing managed to stir her still heart. Silver statues, ceiling of galaxies, ostentatious kingdom — images that meant less than zero.

Everything was pointless, she thought, pulling her knees tight to her chest.

"Námo," she said. "The ruler of the dead. The sixth greatest of the Valar Lords, the fifth among the Aratar."

Her eyes met his glowing ones that were hidden under the black hood of his colourless cloak. Everything about him was dark — his long hair, his attire, the markings around his arms, even his throne was obsidian black. Definite master of souls.

"Olorin is too talkative for his own good," he all but said. "I am Námo indeed, but many have the tendency to call me Mandos."

Minerva swallowed the tight lump in her throat, staring at her clothes that seemed to have been cleaned. "I do not belong here."

The dark Vala gazed at her in the way Minerva felt unusually familiar with. He rose from his throne, and slowly descended down the set of marble stairs, his cloak pooling behind him.

"My child," Námo whispered as he kneeled beside her. "Perhaps you were too oblivious to any of the signs that were laid before your eyes."

Minerva sheered away from his intent look, closing her teary irises. "Monsters tend to do that," muttered she.

His fingers pushed a lock of her raven hair away from her covered face. "None of whom I have met felt this compassionate towards their enemies."

"I'm one of a kind."

Mandos' hand gently lay upon her shoulder. "And you shall be able to prove that,  _Validhreniel_."

As tears streamed down her porcelain cheeks, clean from the last bits of the raging battle, Minerva felt a rush of warmth coursing through her body. Her head turned to look at him, and for a fleeting moment she felt like a frightened child, whose innocence had been stolen by the cruelty of the unknown world.

"I have met you before," Minerva whispered, a brief flash of foreign image agitating something within her. Námo wiped away her sorrow, his fingers lingering upon her face. "I know you."

"You do," he said. "For you are the one who has always been under my patronage."

A few minutes of silence, of gazing at the infinity that the deep blackness, gently pulling her soul closer to relief with every tear that strained her face, had passed.

Minerva eventually wiped at her glistering eyes with the back of her hand.

"Am I to figure the rest of it myself?" she questioned, slowly gathering herself together.

Mandos simply gazed at her. "We do not have much time to spend."

"Is an eternity not enough?"

"I'm afraid you do not possess that much of it." He smiled partly sadly. "But I will tell you of all you need to know, perhaps I shall even give you a glimpse of the future."

"I don't want your words," Minerva mumbled, staring at the fabric of her trousers. "I merely want to have my … rest. I'm too tired to live again."

With a sigh, Námo rose to his feet. His hand stretched out for her to take, the pale arm of his glowing in a soft blue light that seemed to be enfolding the pair of them. With his help, she stood up. "Can I stay to watch the stars?" She neglected the plea in her voice.

"You have always loved them." She felt him squeeze her hand. "But nor I nor anyone else can grant you that. Only time."

Minerva withheld herself from laughing at his statement, her head tilting to once again linger on the sky. "Time is an illusion."

"You  _do_  remember my phrases," Námo said. "And your infinite love for the heavenly bodies that flow above my halls."

"And the fact that I was defeated and crushed into pieces by the cruelty of my own." She shifted to look at him. "I can't do it again… I can't come back."

"You are obligated to." As Minerva shook her head, he put a calming hand on her shoulder. "But you ought not to be happy if you feel nothing but grief. Nor you must forget the mistakes that you have made in the journey of your life. You can take all the days you need to heal…  _To forgive yourself_."

"And what if I never do? Do I continue to live with guilt sucking my soul out?"

Mandos smiled comfortingly. "My dear child," whispered he. "You are far stronger than you have already proved that you are. And soon enough guilt might become the least of things you'll have to deal with."

"Very comforting."

"Worry not." He took her hand. "I'm sure your friends won't abandon you, and will understand… Especially Olorin."

She merely nodded in answer.

Gandalf…

How was he feeling? Was he still cradling her body, long ago torn from her lonely soul? Or was he drinking in despair of his loss, after holding her till his eyes were dry from the tears he had shed, blood-soaked robes clinging to his skin, never to retrieve their colour again— Or perhaps he just let it all go…

"Minerva," Mandos called out, pulling her out of her thoughts. "You shall witness it all."

"Yes," she said. "I'm afraid I will."

He tugged at her hand. "Let's take a walk."

For two minutes both of them deliberately made their way to seemly nowhere, lofty columns extending further than her glassless eyes could reach. Námo's significantly taller figure displayed his godly origin, and even besides him holding her hand, Minerva felt like a  _child_.

"You are but a child,  _Validhreniel_ ," he broke the silence.

" _Validhreniel…_ " she whispered. "What does it mean?"

"Translating from the Quenya into the common tongue, it means goddess of wisdom." He smirked lightly. "And that is the meaning of your name."

"Oh…" Minerva trailed.

He noticed her hesitation. "I do not have all of the answers, but you still can try and ask," the Vala said, his tone still solemn, yet pleasingly soft.

She thought for a few seconds, her mind leaping from one thing to another, never fully grasping a simple question. The obscurity was so dark… "I wouldn't know from where to begin," she said.

"Indeed." Minerva felt him release his grip upon her hand, and she found herself missing the familiar contact. "Look at your arm," he said, never slowing his steps. "What can you see?"

She carelessly eyed the blue patterns. "An aftermath of poisoning."

"Correct," Mandos stated. "But the poison that the needle held was meant to mark or to kill. And I know that this is your first death."

"And your point is?"

"Dozens of Middle-earth inhabitants have crossed my kingdom, all of them signed the same, but the poison never worked on you. Nor it ever will," he explained in one breath. "You are the only one who is immune to its effect."

He paused and turned to look at her. Eyeing her confused face, he pressed a smile. "Not really clear, is it?" When Minerva nodded uncertainly, he sighed. "I'll summarize it for you: you have nine rings of patterns on your arm — each of them symbolizes your lives. When I shall send you back to live again, one of them will disappear. And so it will go on until there are none to lose."

Minerva felt her head swirl with thoughts, each of them more bizarre than the latter, causing a disarray of her mind. "Can we sit down?" she asked, daring not to walk further.

"Oh, yes."

Slumping down to sit, she never really noticed how Námo conjured a seat from thin air, neither did she care.

"That is the main reason why you were to run while the others stayed for defence," he continued. "If you were to be captured, not even a thousand of lives would help you."

 _For Merlin's sake_ … "Who is hunting me?  _Why_?" Minerva questioned, pain arising behind her eyes. "Why do I  _have_  nine lives?"

Mandos slowly kneeled before her, gathering her hands in his. "You are the sixth Istar, Minerva," he said. "You are one of the Maia who is under my patronage."

"Like Gandalf?"

"Yes." He gazed into her wild eyes. "But albeit Olorin is of your kind, he has always been the vassal of my sister Nienna, learning of love and pity."

"And I chose to wander in your halls… Star-gazing, welcoming lost souls— it's all I can remember."

"That is true," Námo said with a nod of his head. "Because of a prophecy—which I shan't tell you— you were not sent to Middle-earth, wandering alongside me, instead resettled upon another world—" his dark pupils suddenly dilated, and he fell silent. "The rest you will hear from your fellow Maia."

"What?" Her eyebrows rose. "Can't you just spill it out?"

"I'm afraid our time together is over." Minerva noted how his expression changed. "Unless you would rather welcome a newcomer—a dear friend, nonetheless."

With the swiftness of her feline from, she jumped from the seat, worry washing over. "Who?" the witch pleaded before the Vala could even gather himself up.

"Oh, I am certain you will find out eventually." He smiled. "See you soon,  _Validhreniel._ "

His final words melted in the silence that overlaid her ears, following right after the god before her had disappeared in a flash of midnight blue. For a single moment, Minerva felt like floating — darkness seizing her by its sharp claws, pulling, tearing… Then came the light of raging fire, blinding her bare eyes, burning her skin—

Third of a second later, the woman found herself falling as space around her crumbled, stars around dissolving into nothing.

Just falling… falling…

* * *

A wave of tranquillity knocked over Minerva as her aching fingers insensibly grasped at the coolness of the grass, ghostly running through the cosy thickness, nails digging into the damp soil—

"—  _how could you?!"_

And now the quiet was gone. As were the stars.

Her flaming eyes tore open, shining like the brightest of flames, but as blank as an untouched sheet of paper. Shaking her head, Minerva slowly rose to her feet, palms lingering in the depths of earth before gently pushing off to keep up with the rest of her weary body. Her vision swarm as her muddy skin twinged, the sharp pain gradually building up inside her limbs. Then it finally focused.

Glamdring fell into the field of her vision. Half of a second later, the disastrous blade lay in the palm of her hand, fractioning against her sore skin.

Gandalf's raging figure stilled and tensed, lightly, barely perceptibly staggering to one side. His weapon of steel slid out mid-blow and was left never to claim the life of the one before him. Clearly, her frail movement had caught his full attention.

Gripping at her side that radiated in waves of searing pain, blinding her already weak vision, and provoking the tight clench of her jaw, she stood still. As pairs of eyes were fixed upon her, turned to look at her from the opposite directions, and with mouths hanging open under, Minerva gazed at how Gandalf sharply shifted to face her.

Colour drained from his features, hidden under the layer of sweat, blood, dirt… and the dry trails of tears. Scarlet cuts and gashes lingered on his forehead, jaw, taking a path all over his body, where his smeared robes clung against bleeding muscle, hanging as if it were but a shred rag.

"You could use a change of robes."

The softness of her distantly toneless voice broke the tension that held all of them locked in a silent battle of gazes. Minerva missed the few of moments of Gandalf rushing at her, her vision dark with the heating sensation. But she felt his arms around her waist, gently, no doubt mindful of her injuries, wrapping her in the huddle of warmth that his body was. His fingers clutched at her back possessively, but nonetheless carefully, and her sense of smell was invaded by the odious scent of copper.

"Minerva," Gandalf breathed out, resting his forehead against her shoulder, mutely taking in the frantic beating of her wounded heart.

He clung to her tighter, his fingertips digging into her skin, begging for her to respond. But her still hands never rose to grip at his skin, instead idly hanging by her sides.

Minerva couldn't suppress the groan that left her through her clenched teeth, emerald eyes closed in spasms that tore at her shattered spine. "I haven't… healed," she but whispered.

Glamdring slid from the relaxed grip of her fingers and sunk deep into the friable soil beside her feet. And the power she felt was gone.

All that Minerva felt was anger, flooding her in waves, drowning, pulling deep under the light. Grey eyes bore into hers as she glanced over Gandalf's shoulder, her own glazed eyes unsuccessfully trying to hide the hurt of betrayal that she felt along with the wreck of her heart.

The familiar face of an elf hovered a few feet before her, a wooden bow was in his hand, the one he once gave her himself. And the one he had shot her with.

And at the moment, Minerva wished to tear him apart for the treason that he had performed, to grab Glamdring and finish what the grey wizard had begun. But as her body tensed, Gandalf's grip on her tightened, as if he understood the agony that tormented her. And perhaps he did. Elrond betrayed him, too.

Then her back was set aflame. Unbearable spasms tore through her like a series of toxic explosions, taking away her consciousness bit by bit.

A minute later her wish to escape the pain came true and darkness washed her troubles away.

* * *

She awoke, her mind but a fusion of memories.

Someone was carrying her. Voices mingled in the heap of sounds surrounding her. But it might had been her imagination.

Chill. Her body felt unbelievably cold.

Crushing pain flooded her, and she winced once before flying to the darkness yet again.

* * *

Minerva cracked her green eyes.

She lay on her back; the mattress of bed felt beyond comparably softer than anything she had ever lain on. There was a wet cloth on her forehead. A pair of hands occasionally brushed against her skin.

She tried to fight against the invisible restrains that held her body pinned down, pain growing with each movement of her limbs. Minerva groaned at an attempt to sit up, her head spinning as sudden nausea hit her.

"Calm down." No idea who said it.

With the last spell of her vision, she found Gandalf's slouching form, sitting with his bearded face resting behind his hands. Blood trickled down his bare chest.

And then her mind wished farewell for the third time.

* * *

_Water._

_Wave after wave of freezing liquid lapped over, and over, and over her franticly reaching hand. Her body felt heavy and light at the same time, weary, too weary to push upwards, to grab the rope of life._

_Unknown filled her heart, water washed her lungs. But she still found herself fighting for a breath, gritting teeth against the stream, fists clenching, eyes wide with trying. For the last time her body twitched in an attempt to reach for Merlin-knows-what. Her hope to see the sky again was gone within a moment._

_And even when the water finally found a path to finish her, life still threw her a surprise._

_There, within a mere reach of a hand, floated a lifeless body. Surrounded by the darkness of the lake, it had long lost the battle against the unstoppable force of nature, with emotionless eyes staring at her, pleading to be saved._

_But it was too late._

_Golden curls drifted around him, colour drained, turned into ashes that could never fit him as the light beams of sun did. Wide irises that once brought light into her life as they lit up in joy, twinkling, sparkling, shining… now were empty. And his mouth was agape, letting the water flood his body freely, taking away the last bits of his remaining soul — but a minute ago it had been curled into a smile…_

_And she wanted to scream, to cry… to reach for his hand._

_But water had already filled her open mouth, crushing her empty lungs, sucking her breath out… Trying to finish her completely._

_And it did._

* * *

Minerva woke up with a violent jerk, and found herself completely covered in cold sweat. It took a while before she realized that she wasn't drowning any longer, her lungs filled but with light air, throat free of the painful spasms. It had been but a dream.

She allowed her tensed body to relax, greedily taking in gulps of cool air, as if any of them could be her last. A dream. It had been but a simple dream… But it felt beyond  _real._

With her heart hammering like mad, Minerva turned her head to regard the dark form of her lover who lay beside her. His grey eyes were closed, his bare back illuminated in the light of stars that was shed through the fluttering curtains. His pale skin was covered in scarlet scars — those of new still shine in angry red, framing his firm body.

And all of a sudden Minerva felt guilty, eyeing his peaceful and soft face.

Gently, she removed Gandalf's arm that was draped over her exposed stomach. She sat up, drawing in a sharp breath, her mind too preoccupied to care about the chilly air that slashed at her skin, the thick blanket long gone from her shoulders.

Her feet made a contact with the floor. For a few moments Minerva sat on the edge of the bed, her body still, clothed only in dark undergarments, her raven hair softly cascading on her back.

"Forgive me," she whispered.

To who was she apologizing? To the ones who died from her hands? To the one who drowned beside her? To Gandalf?... Perhaps herself?

"Forgive me…"

Her voice cracked. So did her soul.

Grabbing the glass of water from the table beside, Minerva tried to swallow a few drops. A pair of wide eyes were burned into the back of her eyelids, and she wasn't able to drink. Nor to simply look at the clear water.

The next thing she knew, the glass shattered against the wall before her.

"Gods," Minerva breathed out, covering her face with her hands.

Later, as the cold bed shifted, she flinched. A pair of arms entwined around her waist, pulling closer to warmth, and out of the misery. And she sat flush against Gandalf's chest, trapped between his warm legs, his lips resting at the crook of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine.

So they lurked in the dark with nothing to say, with hearts beating like drums.

And that night sleep did not claim her.

* * *

"Eat, Minerva."

The witch shook her head in answer.

"Please."

Her emerald eyes rose to meet his grey ones. "I'm not hungry."

She heard him sigh.

Leaning back in her chair, Minerva traced the lines of worry across his face. His fingers rested upon her bare thigh, lightly tightening the grip upon it. She didn't find it necessary to dress up for breakfast. And yet she wore Gandalf's dressing gown.

"I love you," he said out of blue.

"You do, don't you." Her blunt answer visibly hurt him. "Bring me a drink."

The man rose with a nod. Then he left her alone.

After staring at her full plate till she felt like gagging from the image of food, Minerva rose to her feet. And when her head lay against a pillow, back comfortably sinking into a mattress, she felt like the world slipped under her feet.

Elrond betrayed her. That simple act costed her the serenity of her soul, the cleanness of her hands, the trust in people… the spark in her life. But even now she thought she could cope with a loss of friendship.

After all these months of healing… of dealing with Albus' death, with Severus' betrayal, and loss of loved ones, Minerva thought she could cope with a simple treachery. The first time it had happened, that night when she got her first stab in the back, even if she had lived the most of her life, the price of a lost friendship was a life. Today, it rose to unprecedented heights — her sanity.

But it could have been another life…

"I love you, too," Minerva said as Gandalf's form regressed from the hunt for her desires. "And I apologise."

He kneeled before the bed and put a bottle with gold on the night-table.

"Everything will find its place," Gandalf squeezed her hand. "You'll see."

She said nothing in return.

* * *

_It was hard to breathe. Pain… So much pain._

_Dark cave. A bridge… A demon?_

" _You shall not pass!" Was that him?_

_Burning liquid trickled from her abdomen, splashing across the dirt that lay under her feet. And her emerald eyes found his figure, power radiating from the roughness of his bearded face, fire seizing the winged monster before him._

_There was silence. There was a split of the solid bridge, and the intimidating being fell before the light of the wooden staff, Glamdring glimmering before her own eyes._

_Then she found herself smiling, despite the pain, despite the weariness of her body. And he did, too, his face now turned to gaze at her, finding her wondering eyes._

_But life did not agree._

_His body was pulled backwards, weapons scattered, fingers gripping, nails digging into the dust. And her eyes widened, smile melting away, legs carrying her forward, towards him, towards the end of the bridge. Her knees painfully clashed against the ground, now scrapped, bleeding, but her arm caught his._

" _Please," she found herself whispering. "Don't let go."_

_She tried to pull him, to save him, her fingers never letting go of his hand. His grey eyes bore into hers as his body hovered above the dark abyss, legs dangling, head shaking in denial._

" _I'm sorry."_

_His hand let go of hers._

* * *

"It's just a dream, love," Gandalf whispered against her skin. "A dream."

Her body shook uncontrollably — with fear, with pain, even with guilt. Minerva clung to his body, her nails digging into his skin as she straddled his larger body. His warm fingers rested in her raven her, ever so lightly brushing the irksome strands from her face. And it was buried deep in the crook of his neck, her eyes closed in fear, teeth gritted in familiar pain. But it had been just a dream.

"Don't let go," Minerva mumbled. "Don't let go…"

Gandalf answered, "You're safe, Min. I'm safe. We both survived."

She nodded lightly, never pulling back.

"I've got you, Minerva," he said. "And I'm never going to let go of you."

"I love you," she whispered.

Gandalf smiled against her. "I love you, too. I hope you know that."

Another five minutes had passed, her fingers playing with his silver hair, braiding, tugging, and just holding. Her heartbeat returned to normal.

Sensing her calmness, Gandalf slightly pulled back. "Might I suggest a dose of sleep?" he questioned lightly.

Her hands cupped his face, and her lips rested against his cheek. Minerva faintly registered his ghostly grin against her skin, before she broke the contact, lazily gazing into his eyes.

"Perhaps I'll accept your invitation," she answered.

And with her in his arms, Gandalf leaned back to lay on the bed, pulling on the thick sheet above the both of them. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"I won't let go…" he whispered, before sleep claimed him and the woman in his embrace.

Sun rose in the east, gradually bringing light and peace upon their room, and the pair slept undisturbed for the rest of the night.

* * *

Her wounds had healed. Every single one of them.

Nothing surprising, really, except for the fact that only two nights had passed after Minerva got them. And now it was only frightening.

The faint scars lingered, of course, the nearly invisible lines that crossed her skin, standing out in the lightly redder tone. But the pain was still there. It followed her with every step, with every swallow of burning liquor, and with every touch that Gandalf cherished her with.

He himself wasn't exactly astonished to notice the fast healing of her injuries. She was a witch, after all. But even after her body fixed itself, he wasn't very fond of the fact that her spine burned with ache every few hours. And burn it did.

Minerva couldn't sleep on her back. She couldn't wear heavy clothes. She couldn't touch the support of the chair… But her back had  _healed_.

And even now, as she stood with her fingers gripping the edges of the sink, eyes closed, teeth gritted, body trembling, her spine shattered over and over again, leaving her breathless, suffering, and broken.

Her hearing was too sensitive to miss the slight shift of air around. "Leave," she whispered.

"Let me help you, Minerva." Gandalf tried to take a step further into the bathroom. "You don't have to suffer alone."

"Leave." Her voice held more force, it was barely noticeable that her breath was stolen by the spasms across her body. "Leave me alone."

"I'll stay."

"No," Minerva almost spat in anger. " _Get out."_

"Min—"

Her eyes snapped open. "Don't you understand the meaning of my words?" she hissed. "Turn around and leave me  _alone_."

Gandalf stood still.

"GET OUT OR I'LL  _MAKE_  YOU DO IT!" The monster found its way back.

And with a single sigh, Gandalf was gone from the bathroom.

Her breathing slowly returned to normal. Her black eyes met her monstrous reflection in the mirror, mockingly staring back at her.

A grunt of rage left her throat as glass shattered against her clenched fist. Blood trickled down her fingers, and splashed on the white tiles. Tears strained her cheeks.

"Get out," Minerva whispered. "Get out. Get out. Get out—"

Her voice cracked as she sunk to the floor, clutching her wounded hand close to her chest.

"Get… out…"

But it didn't.

* * *

"Don't touch me," Minerva whispered. "Please."

Gandalf sighed. "As you wish, love." His fingers let go of hers.

Her expressionless eyes rested on the white bandage that crossed her arm.

"Our depart was delayed," he said. "For you to … heal."

"I  _have_  healed," she fixed her gaze upon his brow, "if you haven't noticed."

He shifted in his chair. "Your body, yes, it has healed… But those wounds of not visible haven't."

"So you all write me off as insane?"

His grey eyes hid the devastation behind a shield of nothing.

"You were the one who wanted me to talk, am I right?" Minerva asked. Then paused. " I wouldn't blame you if you did…I hear  _them_ …" she whispered. "They  _scream_  in my head. They plead me… they— they are driving me insane… I can't live like this. It's been  _two days,_ and I feel like jumping off a cliff— to escape. To …  _forget_."

"Beloved—" Gandalf began, but her words cut him off.

"My name is  _Minerva_ ," she spat. "My name is… Minerva." The last word came out as a sigh. "Gods… I  _am_  insane _._ "

The light of her green eyes danced in wild fear.

"No." He shook his head. "You aren't insane, Minerva, nor are you going to be… This world… This  _world_  is insane. And all wounds require time to heal, whether a day, a week, a month or a year. It might never heal. But you can try… Try to live your life. To forgive."

By the end of his speech, her face had turned back into an expressionless void. "How long?"

"I'm sorry, I don't think I follow… how long what?" He shifted his head.

"Until we leave."

Gandalf's expression changed to guilt. "A week."

"Strange…" Minerva trailed. "Elrond kills me and gives me a week to heal. How  _kind_  of him."

Silence.

Her emerald eyes traced the lines over his face as he sat motionless before her, eyes boring into hers. Her Istar appeared old. He had always been, but not in this way, not without his usual spark… He looked like a mere mortal man. Worry, guilt, pity, hurt — all shone from him, adding years to his appearance as if age had caught up with him, and he could turn into dust at any moment.

His grey eyes had lost their fire. Youth was gone from his once captivating features… He was suffering because of her.

"You should leave me," Minerva said.

Gandalf smiled sadly. "I suppose you do not wish me to leave this room, do you?"

She shook her head. "You should leave  _me_."

"You feel as if I ought to leave you, but I shan't do such thing. Never."

Minerva sat still. "I have observed your suffering. If you would leave me with my insanity, you could be free of it all."

"I'm afraid, Minerva, I am not able to leave you alone, for I have, as I told you before, fallen in love. Sanity or none of it."

"Perhaps it is not too late to fall out of it."

"I'm too deep to pull myself upwards, I have found. I'll drown alone, or I'll drown with you," he said. "But I shall still drown."

She sighed. He was right.

* * *

" _If you would but lend me the ring—"_

" _No."_

_Golden leaves, warmth, light._

" _Why do you recoil? I am no thief," hissed a voice._

_Numbness spread across her, wind tousling loose strands of her hair. Her bow was drawn. White cloak shielded her body._

" _You are not yourself!"_

_Chilling silence._

" _What chance do you think you have?" Her bow rose to aim. "They will find you… they will take the ring… And you will beg for death before the end!"_

_Footsteps._

" _YOU FOOL!"_

_The little figure ran. The man pursued. They both fell on the ground._

" _The ring is mine!"_

_And the man ripped a piece of gold from the boy's neck. Her arrow crossed the thick air._

_He choked on his blood, gasping for air, gripping the ring tighter. His fingers clawed at the dart in his throat._

_She walked, she ripped the man off from the boy, she stepped on his empty lungs._

" _You are the only fool, my friend." And she drew her bow._

_With a final groan he fell silent, grey eyes empty of anything._

_Her arrow had finished him._

* * *

Minerva choked on her own blood.

Absolute irony.

She pulled her uncovered hand from between her teeth, and sat up. It was bleeding heavily, crimson soaking into the light bed sheets.

Carefully, as not to awaken her unconscious lover, she moved to stand up, taking in deep breaths of air. Slowly, with mind blank from the haze of sleep, and the fear that forced her heart to hammer, Minerva stumbled into the dark bathroom.

A candle flamed beside as she wiped at her stained hand, gently bringing out the dark bite marks. Too many of them… She had been unconsciously trying to muffle her screams. Or perhaps to wake up?

Well, either way, it had worked.

Shedding the used cloth into the sink under the broken mirror, Minerva left the bathroom, putting out the only light source.

Gandalf was still asleep, sprawled on the large bed. He looked peaceful, free of worry… She turned away from him, images flashing before her eyes. With a sigh she grabbed his discarded shirt and dressing gown — perhaps a drink could erase the awful visions of her nightmare. Water, tea, alcohol — whichever she should find.

The kitchen of Imladris seemed clear of any occupants. Minerva wasn't in the mood to socialize, by any means. She shivered. The autumn air felt too biting against her barely clad skin.

As she grabbed a bottle, a light sound of chair cracking reached her from the other end of the room. "Can't sleep?" Minerva inquired, pouring herself a glass of liquid.

"I am not the only exception, it seems."

She turned to face him. "Oh no… I certainly hope you are not having any nightmares, being the victim of the story," she said, voice monotonous and dangerously low.

He shook his head. "How are your wounds?"

"Healed."

"What about your hands?"

Minerva gave him a half-smile. "A side effect of touching glass, I believe."

"Biting marks?"

She took a sip of her drink, and said in the same low tone, "I have a  _very_  passionate lover."

"I have always assumed Mithrandir was of the gentle kind."

With a shrug, she answered, "You have assumed wrong."

He sighed. Then he rose from his chair. "Have a good night."

"Likewise, my lord," Minerva mocked.

He left.

She grabbed her wand and glassed that he had left at the table, and strode out of the kitchen.

"You know where you can shove your good night," a mumble left her as she closed the door of the bedroom.

"Minerva?" a hoarse voice reached her. "Where were you?"

She froze in her place. "To get a cup of tea."

Gandalf rubbed his eyes, sitting up. "And is that tea in your hand?"

"I might have mixed up my own order."

He yawned. "You met Elrond in the kitchen?"

"Yes. He gave me back by wand and … glasses," she trailed.

His eyebrows rose. "Love, is something wrong?"

"I don't need them anymore. I lived with them for the most of my life, and now I don't need them."

"Your glasses, you mean?"

She nodded, strange emptiness appearing inside. Over a pair of glasses.

"Come to bed, Min," Gandalf coaxed lightly. "We can talk if you wish."

She downed the rest of her drink. Nodding, she placed her possessions on the night-table. The dressing gown pooled at her feet.

"My clothes suit you," Gandalf murmured, lying down.

"They suit you, too."

Minerva slid under the thick sheet, pressing her body flush against his heat. He wriggled in discomfort.

"You're so cold," he whispered.

"The main reason why I'm in this bed with you."

His arms entwined around her, although he tried to give her some space. But she could only cling to him tighter.

"Your hand…"

Gandalf pulled it out from under the sheets, eyes glittering with worry.

"I just had a dream… And I woke up choking on blood."

"Min…"

He pressed a kiss to her sore skin.

"I love you," he said afterwards.

Minerva hummed against his shoulder in answer. Her fingers traced ornaments across his bare chest, eyes observing the calming movements of his ribcage.

Later, when both of them were on the edge of giving into sleep, she whispered, "Perhaps those glasses were the last connection to my past life."

He didn't answer.

* * *

Minerva ignored the fearful glances sent her way. And the greetings. And the pity.

Today, early in the morning, she swiftly strode through the paths of Rivendell. She wore her usual robes, she had her hair in a tidy bun — she looked as if nothing had happened.

But it had.

Her empty emerald eyes were the proof of it all.

"Good morning," an elf wished.

Minerva passed him with a simple nod at his general direction.

Finally, her steps ceased. She sat down and looked over the horizon.

With her feet dangling from the edge of the cliff, Minerva sighed. Waterfall cascaded just under her, sparkling in the golden sunlight, and she watched the slight rumble of the forest before. The very same, but now clean of any traces of the distant fight.

"A nice day, isn't it?"

Minerva was silent.

Námo eventually sat down beside her. "My child, what is on your mind?"

"Dreams."

"Indeed." He sighed. "These dreams are not to be ignored,  _Validhreniel_."

"As if I could," she whispered with a shift of her head. "Why are you here?"

"To talk and to listen."

She nodded slightly. "Will I kill him?" Minerva asked, her eyes staring into his. "Will he die because of me?"

"If you shan't take any action, he will." Mandos turned to gaze at the forest. "But you are capable of doing as you wish. You can shoot him not."

She shook her head bitterly. "And how am I supposed to not let the others die? I can't hold his arm because he lets go of it."

"It is for you to find out, Minerva. Perhaps you ought to tell them all of what you see and let them change the course of their own future." Námo touched her hand lightly. "But a few are to be calm after having their death be foreseen. Even the strongest can succumb to the knowledge of what is certain."

She nodded. "And am I to reject these powers of yours?"

"Oh, no," he murmured with a smile, "you are to endure and use all of them."

"What other abilities do you talk about?"

His fingers crept up her upper arm. "Here lays a hidden power of the one list." He drew a symbol. "A name you must tell of your choice, then I will certain their doom."

"And who is to kill them?"

"When the time comes, you shall be the one who takes lives away," he said. "If you do not fulfill your duty, your life is the one that shall be taken."

"Marvelous," Minerva said simply.

"Any requests that I might carry out?"

Her blank gaze did not change. "The Lord of Imladris."

"Nay, Minerva." Námo shook his head sadly. "You must not wish irresponsibly, child, as you cannot change your decisions."

She snorted. "Then leave it blank."

"As you wish,  _Validhreniel_."

They continued to sit in silence.

"On a second thought…" Minerva trailed. "May it be Sauron."

He hummed in response. "Are you certain of your decision?"

"Yes." She nodded. "I want his name on the list."

"Of course." Námo turned at her. "Anything else your heart desires?"

"Can I give away my lives?"

"Only one of them."

Another pause of silence.

"Do not waste them, Minerva."

And with her nod, Námo was gone.

She sighed against the light breeze. She certainly would waste them.

* * *

"Are you sure?"

"I can kill you with a flick of my fingers, and you're the one asking me if I'm sure?"

Boromir frowned. Minerva drew out her sword. Gandalf tensed in his chair. The few observers held their breath.

His hand tried to land on her, but she smacked it away. "Don't  _touch_  me."

Finally, Boromir drew his sword out, loosely pointing it at her.

He met her blows, dodging and reeling, but never clouting back. The man easily deflected her powerful strikes, his body moving in sharp motions that showed his life-long experience. And albeit Boromir fought, he still didn't smash back.

With a single blow, Minerva knocked the silver blade from his grip. As Boromir crouched to gather it back, she spoke, "I do not think Sauron will be as much of a statue as you are. So fight back, son of Gondor."

"You won't fight Sauron," he said, rising.

Minerva held back a smile. "With my luck, I won't live long enough to fight him."

Boromir sighed; she avoided Gandalf's gaze.

The duel began anew. Minerva eventually felt his blade against her own, clouting back, bringing the battle to its peak. But he nevertheless withheld himself.

In frustration she threw down her sword, startling everyone around. "Stop acting like I'm disabled!"

"I am not acting, Minerva," Boromir said in answer.

"Then why are you so afraid of fighting me so?" Her voice was too even. "Either way I am going to die, so you don't have to withhold yourself from doing it now."

"Are you alright?" He looked surprised.

"No.  _No_ ," Minerva said, pointing at his chest. "Either you kill me, or I will kill you."

"Minerva?"

"YOU WILL TAKE THE RING, AND I WILL KILL YOU!" she screamed, her eyes turned into nothing.

Gandalf stood by her side, his figure hovering before her. Boromir was silent.

"I would be a  _fool_  if I would," he said.

_Why did he have to say it? She was… she was… to kill him. She couldn't—_

Minerva tried to take a deep breath, but the tightness in her chest — she couldn't breathe. Her throat had closed off, air left her — air.  _She needed air_.

Pushing past Gandalf's figure, she whimpered in response to his calls. She ran through the halls, fingers working on the collar of her shirt, but she couldn't—

With her heart racing, she tumbled into the familiar quarters, lungs contracting inside her flaming chest. Her vision blurred, she couldn't see, she couldn't walk, she couldn't breathe—

After half-crawling to the bathroom, Minerva collapsed inside the empty tub, body shaking like a leaf. And that was it — tears began pouring down her cheeks as she lost control of her numb body. She couldn't block the pins and needles spreading from her fingertips, absorbing her senses, she couldn't fight the senseless drumming of her heart, the lack of air…

Sweat formed on her brow, trickled down her neck, her skin, freezing, biting— She felt dizzy… Her body still shook, tears streamed down her face, and she could only hug her knees tighter.

 _Calm down, Minerva_ , she tried to tell herself,  _settle down_ — But she couldn't form a sentence, words mixing together.

The world spun around…

"Breathe."

She wasn't sure who had said that.

In. Out. In. Out. In...—  _It wasn't working_.

Her fingers again worked on her collar, but she couldn't grasp the buttons, a sob escaping her.

"Breathe, Minerva."

The button gave in under his fingers. Then his hand touched her shoulder.

Gandalf.

A questing finger of his crept up her back. Then down to the bottom. Then up again.

"In… Out… In... Out…" he repeated over and over again, drawing his finger in soothing movements. "Breathe with me, love."

She couldn't stop herself from crying, nor could she put an end to the shaking of her body, but her heart slowly evened out. She breathed, gradually taking in deeper breaths, her relaxed lungs expanding and collapsing.

What felt like hours later, Minerva cracked her emerald eyes. She felt drained, tired … lifeless.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Gandalf shushed her. "Just breathe, dear."

She took another deep breath.

He smiled, playing with a strand of her hair. A minute later, her tears dried off.

Soothing silence was surrounding them when there was a sharp knock way back at the door.

Gandalf moved to rise. Her fingers lightly touched his arm, and he froze, staring at her in alarm.

"Stay," Minerva whispered.

Not once did her emerald eyes rise to meet his.

She leaned back with a sigh, her back resting against the cool edge of the bath.

"Just stay."

* * *

_A mask covered her pale face. The darkness of the tower walls blended with her being. A horrible stench of metal invaded her sensitive sense of smell, causing her gaze to shift downwards._

_Blood. Her clothes were soaked in dark, nearly obsidian blood, and her soiled boots left familiar printings behind._

_Her fingers lightly rested upon a silver door handle. She hesitated._

_And then, by a mere chance, her misty eyes caught a trail of a bit lighter liquid, splattered across the crystal tiles. And she followed it._

_A ball was where it had led her. A simple ball._

_But as her hand reached to touch it, an image of a red eye flew before her steel eyes. And then the familiar feeling of rage returned to fill her soul._

" _Bastard," she spat._

_With a turn, her form fled to the same door, swiftly pushed it open, and stepped into the dim room._

_Blood, paper, darkness._

_Scattered across the ground, lay posters with her face upon them, with her name, with a description…_

_Traitor._

_Drawing her sword out, she lunged at the clad in white figure that had turned at her with a swish of embroidered robes—_

* * *

Her emerald eyes fluttered open. Her heartbeat abruptly picked up, and she shot upwards.

A warm hand rested on her cool cheek.

"Another dream?" Gandalf asked from beside her.

She nodded heavily. Covering his hand with her own, Minerva lay back down, blankly staring at the ceiling, and slowly letting her lungs catch breath.

Mithrandir shifted on the edge of the couch, his grey eyes resting on her pale face. "Who was it about?"

She shook her head in answer, closing her eyes. "I couldn't see… But I will..." Her voice cracked lightly. "I will… kill."

"You don't know it, love," he said. "You couldn't see, remember?"

"I felt it,  _Mithrandir_ ," she whispered, opening her teary eyes. "I felt it…"

Huddling for comfort, Minerva shifted to lay on her side. His fingers slid to trace patters on her back.

"You ought to rest more," Gandalf said. "For your own good."

Her gaze turned emotionless. "So I wouldn't cry in a bath anymore?"

"It is perfectly normal to cry in a bath."

"How many people who have lost control over their lives do you know?" Her voice held a hint of light warning.

"Too many to be surprised," he answered. "People of any kind can have panic attacks, dear."

"But do you know how it feels?" Minerva asked, her tone cold and monotonous, as if she tried to cause him pain. To hurt him. To make him feel what she had felt. "When all of a sudden life slips from under your feet, and you can't do anything but try to breathe?"

"Yes," he said. "I have had it with the first step across Middle-earth."

She sighed. "You are just like  _him_."

He didn't question her choice of words.

* * *

"I'm not highly keen on the idea of leaving you alone with a mirror," Gandalf said against her ear.

"Neither am I," Minerva answered, tearing her eyes away from her reflection.

She turned in his arms, wrapping her own around his broad shoulders.

"You should go," she said. "I need a minute."

Minerva felt his beard brush against her cheek as he kissed her temple. "You needn't come if you do not desire."

"It's quite alright." She leaned a bit back to observe his expression. "I'd like to think I'm ready to hear what you all have to say."

He gave her a half-smile. "I'll be there with you."

"I know."

"Then I leave you be."

Gently, Gandalf let go of her, and hesitantly left his own quarters.

Minerva turned back to gaze at the mirror. She was wearing her glasses. Yes, her eyes had healed, but last night she had decided upon bearing them at any rate, even if they did serve no known purpose. Except for the peace of her mind.

She sighed. Her attire was the same as it had been when the council of Elrond took place. Simple, elegant… and yet it didn't feel right.

Nothing felt right.

Straightening her back, Minerva briefly gazed at her unfamiliarly flawless reflection, before turning around, and leaving the room.

* * *

"Minerva."

She resisted the urge to roll her emerald eyes. "So you  _do_  remember my name, elf."

"Not one to forget, I believe," Elrond answered.

And the urge to pull her wand out.

"Indeed?" Her eyebrows rose. "It didn't seem like you did when you shot me."

That shut him up.

Throwing a quick glance at Gandalf, who was leaning on a windowsill, Minerva sat down. Eleven people. The fellowship… and Elrond. Six sat, the rest stood.

Silence.

"I'm not the one to speak first," she said, rising her eyes.

The wizard cleared his throat. "Of course, Minerva. I am the one to do that." He straightened a bit. "Would you like to ask anything?"

"No," Minerva trailed, interlocking her fingers.

"I expected a bit more of a question," Gandalf said, sighing under his breath. "But either way, I, as are everyone else, am ready to answer.

"First of all…"

And just after those three words of his, Minerva detached from the present. She stared at the polished wood of the table, lightly tracing a single symbol, and trying to listen to Gandalf's words. But he was just talking, talking, and talking…

"Minerva…"

Her eyes rose. "Yes?"

"Am I that difficult to listen to?" Gandalf asked.

She shrugged. "What was it that you said?"

"If you shall answer a few of my questions, I'll tell you everything I know," he said, and with her nod, he continued. "You know your descent. You know you are a Maia and the sixth Istar, but we know nothing of you."

"I thought you knew everything about me."

Gandalf frowned. And so did Elrond.

Boromir broke the silence, shifting in his seat in the far corner of the room. "Who is your patron, Minerva?"

"Námo."

Minerva noticed the ones around her tense.

"And do you have  _the list_?" Aragorn questioned, a shadow running behind his eyes. His jaw and crossed arms stiffened.

"Oh, yes. I do have it."

After a moment, Gandalf uttered the main question, "Might you tell us the name?"

Her emerald eyes lazily turned to meet Elrond's grey ones. "You can all take a look at your forearms."

Swishing of fabric caused Minerva to smile lightly. Having noticed nothing, their eyes rose to stare at her.

"Perhaps I haven't chosen any of you," she said. " _Yet._ "

"I find nothing amusing in your words, Minerva," Elrond commented.

Her face yet again turned into an empty void. "My words are not to be taken as a _joke_."

"That is enough," Gandalf said.

The witch waved her hand in dismissal. "Turn around, my lord, if you would, while I aim at your back. I'd like to see if  _you_  have nine lives."

"But it would not be fair, would it?" Legolas interrupted. "You have committed the unforgivable, while he did nothing to deserve his life to be taken."

"We can fix that," Minerva assured them. "Eight of you die of his hands."

Silence.

Gandalf sighed. "Min…" His gaze met hers. "…erva. Listen to what Elrond has to say. Please."

"You don't have  _any_  right to tell me what to do." Her voice changed with a spark of warning, her emerald eyes gliding to the one beside Gandalf. "You,  _elf_ , dare to kill me, and then stay silent while I have to suffer even in my  _sleep_."

Elrond answered, "I don't have anything to say that would be worthy of clarifying my actions."

"But you did have the audacity to look me in the eyes before you managed to get a lucky aim." The tension around could be sliced with a dull knife. "Oh, yes, I  _have_  figured out the reason behind my own death. I know how you planned it for weeks, counting in every little detail—"

"Minerva—"

"Don't interrupt me, Aragorn, or my name will be the last thing you say." Her dark gaze followed the clench of his jaw, and no one dared to cut her off yet again. "Good. I prefer silence.

"The night when I first stepped through the entrance of Rivendell, dragging lifeless body of his," —She pointed at Gandalf.— "you, Elrond, seemed like a salvation from above, with your healing powers, and knowledge." Minerva inattentively observed the astonishment in the four pairs of eyes that the hobbits stared at the grey wizard with. They knew nothing of their past. "And then I found myself holding a cursed ring, while a man stared at me, his eyes — pools of blood, and I was left to deal with hallucinations.

"A few days later, I was  _this_ close to dying," she continued, pinching her fingers together, "because I finally gave in to the pleasing sensation of punching an arrogant soldier. But I never saw Boromir before me. It was  _him_.

"But I still brushed it off as a consequence of weariness." Her eyes shifted their shade of green. "And then I met Gandalf, with anger radiating from him as if he just desired to scream his lungs out… But he looked guilty. He tried to avoid my gaze. He  _apologized…_  And that confirmed everything. But nothing has been different between us, Elrond. You were  _silent_. I have had to suffer the obscurity that you put me in, trying to figure out who will be the one to die. And the first person that I thought about was  _Mithrandir_.

"Surely, a week later I was running for my life, leaving him behind. And then my heart suddenly froze when I saw Glamdring without his master… But within a minute of the one-sided carnage I found him — with torn robes, bruised, but nevertheless alive… And the one who died was  _me_ ," Minerva finished her sentence, eyes boring into Elrond's. "What was it in the end? A prophecy? A desire to reveal my identity?"

Momentarily, her gaze wandered to trace Gandalf's emotionless expression. Her words had changed him.

"Nay, lass," Gimli said. "It was a vision."

 _That bastard._ "You killed me over a  _vision_?"  _He's a dead man_ , she thought, pulling her body to stand. All that separated the two of them was the length of a table. "Powers of foreseeing are meant to be used to change the course of the future, not to be  _fulfilled_."

Elrond straightened his stance, and Minerva felt the air around her shift. "You cannot change what is certain," he said. "It's not possible."

"How is it not possible?" Her temper threatened to snap. "You could have just  _not_  planned any of it."

"We didn't plan anything."

"You all decided my fate, while I tried to convince myself that it all was but a game," she said, gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. "You  _destroyed_  me. You drove to the edge of  _insanity_. And all because of a  _bloody_  vision?"

A shadow of bewilderment ran behind his eyes.

"I can't sleep at night, because the nightmares are driving me mad. And a day later I am told that these dreams are  _visions_." Her tone had lost its spark of anger. "I foresee your  _deaths_ ," Her eyes ignored the fearful expressions, "and now you dare to tell me they cannot be changed?"

Elrond shook his head lightly.

"If your words are to come true, my Lord, I hope I will foresee your death as the cruelest one," Minerva began, keeping her voice even. "And I won't do  _anything_  to change it, even if you are to die of my own hand."

He appeared to be taken aback.  _Treats him right_ , she thought, finally collapsing in her chair.

Her gaze slid across the room. The hobbits looked terrified. Boromir stood with his mouth agape. Aragorn had his hand on the dark sword handle, while Legolas' fingers rested on his bow. Gimli stared, and Gandalf seemed to be lost in his own thoughts.

_Great._

"So, no, I won't listen to what Elrond has to say." Her words unsettled the thick silence.

"You can see our  _deaths_?" Pippin said, as if he just had woken up from trance. "You know how we will die?"

_Even greater. Why couldn't she hold her tongue?_

Minerva sighed, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. "Yes." Her eyes shifted towards the four figures. "I don't know when nor where. And no, I won't tell you anything."

"But, Minerva!" Merry exclaimed. "You can't just hide our destiny from us!"

"Want to bet?" Her eyebrows rose slightly. "You don't  _want_  to know, believe me."

"I already know, don't I?" Boromir asked silently. "You told me."

She nodded in answer. Her emerald eyes turned to observe the insignificant activity behind the walls of Rivendell. "You can tell them how you feel after hearing it."

In the midst of the sudden chatter, Minerva felt her thoughts slowly drift away from the room.

"Let's finish this gathering," Gandalf said softly. "We shall all meet in time for dinner—"

"No," she interrupted, turning to look at him. "You still owe me a prophecy."

He sighed. When his gaze met hers, Minerva felt her back tense lightly. And she nodded slightly in answer to his silent question.

Gandalf began,

" _A child of the Valar shall be taken,_

_For the dark lord shan't have them forsaken;_

_The end of the fallen Maia will be foreseen_

_As he shall be bereaved of his powers keen._

 

_Upon sunset the sixth Istar ought to return,_

_Seek the councils of wise, where all shall be burnt_

_To take the token of doom they may choose,_

_For the wielder of gold is within the dark muse_

 

_Obsidian stone — the last proof that is needed,_

_Along with the nine rings of lives to be heeded,_

_The list of fire is to be the point that shall waken_

_A godly force of blaze and all that is sacred_

 

_Pernicious curse from the one who has rule_

_Shall help them survive the battle for jewel_

_But if the found strength shall corrupt their weak heart,_

_Sanity will be lost, and a glass of gold shall turn all to dust_

 

_A fallen companion; the spark of the duel_

_Shall oppress them to fight — to win, or to endure the cruel._

_A sign of death will be drawn across skin of the lost enemy,_

_But scarred arms shall shake, and there will lay a white grave."_

 

Minerva held back her distorted smile. _"Marvellous."_

* * *

A day later, Minerva returned to spend the rest of the nights in her own quarters.

And now, a night until the depart of the Fellowship, she struggled to climb down from a never seen horse, hands shaking from the amount of alcohol she had consumed. Laughing to herself, she slowly rose from all fours to an upright position, staggering forward, but eventually gathering herself together.

"Oh, Minerva, ye ought to be afraid…" she trailed in a mocking whisper, her Scottish tongue freed from its restrains. "Yer weak, aren't ya, Curumo?" Minerva asked herself, grinning at the set of stairs before.

Five minutes of dragging her intoxicated body upwards later, she kneeled at the top of the stairs. Giggling at the sound of her sword clashing against the marble, Minerva felt her head spin too fast for her liking.

"I'm not drunk that…" she trailed. "Oh." She smiled. "That drunk!"

Blindly reaching, Minerva gripped the blade of her wet sword. Slowly but progressively she tried to stand up, finally withstanding the force of gravity. The remains of moonlight above caused her another headache, and she cursed.

Leaning on the walls of the hall, she tried to avoid tripping, all the while failing to notice the hot liquid burning her body.

"Where's my wine?" She stopped dead in her tracks. "Ay, not a loss…"

Flinging her arms around, Minerva felt the mask of white slide down from her face.

"Now, aren't ye a bastard?" she growled.

Nausea hit her from crouching so suddenly, and all thoughts of alcohol left her hazy mind. Grinning, Minerva shushed herself before she could say another word. Eventually, she grabbed the smeared mask, and rose to her more or less firm stance.

Stammering in the darkness of the halls, Minerva caught herself standing before a familiar set of doors. She knocked gently. Or it had  _seemed_  like she did.

Letting the loosely hanging sword swing in her hand, she began humming. When the door finally swung open, and her dim eyes met wild grey ones, an unusual smile spread across her face.

"Min—"

"I think I'm in love!" she cut him off, flailing around with her sword.

Gandalf's eyebrows rose. "Is that blood? Are you hurt?"

The next moment she was wrapped in his arms, laughing against his shoulder. "No. No-no-no. No…" she said. "I feel better than ya!"

"You're drunk, Minerva," he stated, pulling back a bit. "And you're covered in blood."

"I just had  _one_  glass…" She shushed him gently. "Did I tell you I'm in love? Like really  _really_  in love?"

Letting the mask and the sword fall, Minerva pulled him into a lingering kiss. But before Gandalf could even react, she had broken the kiss, her lips trailing down the sensitive skin of his neck.

"Minerva," he said, trying to catch her attention. " _Minerva._ "

"Hmm..?" she hummed against his throat. "This is our last night, sweetheart…"

"You can barely stand on your feet, love," He pulled back from her caresses. "And you are going to regret this so much in the morning."

"I'm fine…" she slurred. "More less just a broken rib. I don't care…"

Gandalf sighed. "I'll take a look."

Shifting his grip around her, he scooped her into his arms. Pushing the door closed, the man carried her to his bed, ignoring fits of her rather uncharacteristic giggling.

_How many glasses had she really had?_

"Lay still," he said, gently pulling off her boots.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Gandalf helped her to sit up. A moment later he threw her cloak on the ground, the soaked shirt following soon after.

"You were right!" Minerva said with a lopsided grin. "I didn't kill his sorry ass… Don't tell anyone! It's a secret."

"Right," he answered. "But he did have his hands on you, I see." The kindness of his grey eyes was gone.

She simply laughed and collapsed on the once clean sheets. He sighed, taking a look at the soreness of her split skin. Crimson soiled everything about her.

"Minerva, Minerva," Gandalf breathed out. "What did you get yourself into this time?"

But his lover was fast asleep.

* * *

"I'm never drinking  _again..._ " Minerva moaned, leaning her throbbing forehead against the cold wall of the shower.

Letting the freezing water wash away her despair, she tried to fully wake up from a night of 'fun'. Minerva stumbled over her fuzzy memories — her head was half clear. Scars or any other trace of her last visit to Isengard was gone. So were the rest of her body marks.

"Sanity will be lost…" she cited, closing her burning eyelids. "Glass of gold shall turn all to dust…"

Frowning, Minerva moved to finish her shower.

With his dressing gown wrapped around her body, she re-entered Gandalf's bedroom.

"What are you writing?" she asked, noticing the inked feather in his hand.

The wizard turned around in his chair. "Nothing to cause you to worry," he answered with a light smile. "Finishing a few things before our depart. How are you feeling?"

Minerva downed a glass of water before answering, "Like the first time I died."

She slowly staggered to the bed, before sprawling on it in the most impolite manner. Her eyes closed at the bright sunlight. The headache had returned.

"I have something that might help." She felt his steps towards her. "Not the thing I would recommend drinking, but if we are to leave in four hours… It's better than nothing."

Sitting up a bit, Minerva took the offered vile from Gandalf's hands, and drank the whole thing. But it only seemed to be sharpening the intensity of the throbbing sensation.

With a groan she flopped down on the soft pillows. "It's awful."

"A consequence of drinking, I would assume," he said.

Minerva ignored his remark. "There will be a white grave…" she whispered distantly. "For scarred arms shall shake."

"You're all about that prophecy, love?" He entwined his fingers with hers.

"You know why I'm suffering a morning after, right now?" She shifted her head to look at him. "Because I just wanted to  _forget._  That's all."

"And you somehow managed to almost get yourself killed."

"But I'm still alive," stated Minerva. "And I couldn't murder him, Gandalf. You understand? I couldn't kill a man who betrayed me."

He was silent.

"Both of us, bleeding and on the verge of tears, sat on the ground and found our oblivion in silence and liquor." She covered her face with her hands. "Curse that bloody traitor."

"Indeed," Gandalf murmured in agreement. "How's your head?"

She sat up. "Exceptionally better. Not much, but enough."

"Good," he said with a smile. "Did I tell you I'm in love? With you, nonetheless, sweetheart."

Minerva rolled her emerald eyes at him, hiding the colour rising in her cheeks. "I'll believe it when I see it."

He shifted a bit to face her better, and with a very serious face said, "I love you, Minerva."

"You're a fool," she said. "I'll tell you if it changes."

"That's not entirely nice, Minerva."

A moment before brushing her lips against his, she answered, "But my fool."

* * *

Minerva raised an eyebrow at the mirror before her.

"This is the last time I let  _anyone_  choose my attire," she grunted under her breath.

Námo had gifted her her attire, as her old one was as good as a bag of trash. His taste did  _not_  match hers.

She wore her dark hair in a bun — nothing unusual. The same hooded, with fur fancied cloak hung from her shoulders; practical and very comfortable. A necklace of obsidian stone — a triangle from the prophecy, symbolizing power, energy, and stability. Minerva felt neither of those.

The one thing that was irritating her to the very depths of her soul — a black tunic. Sleeveless, mid-thigh length tunic, perfectly fitting her frame, embroidered with silver, and exhibiting an emblem with the sign of death. But it showed too much skin.

Her right arm was bare, — as if all were in need to identify her — inked with lines of words she could not read, tracing the paths of her life. The other hand had been covered by a dark bracer, adorned with the sign of Gondor. A gift from the one descended from kings.

And Minerva still wore the same heavy boots; warm, easy to jog with. They matched her straight trousers.

Next followed the pile of weapons. A stripe of leather crossed her torso — it belonged to the dark quiver, full of sharp arrows; bow loosely swung in her hand. The silver belt around her waist held a dagger, the one she was supposedly mark people with, and her wand. On the other side hung her sword; the cursed gift of Boromir. Lastly, Minerva kept a simple knife in the depths of her left boot. Just in case.

The woman sighed.

The only thing she liked about this outfit, excluding the pair of boots, was the same old bag on her back. Filled with seamlessly nothing, it brought strangely needed comfort.

This attire appeared formal, godly even. And she still had no wish to wear it.

Enfolding herself in the cloak tighter, Minerva left the room with a last glance at her quarters.


	8. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fellowship departs from Rivendell. How will Minerva feel sleeping under a starry sky?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR A PANIC ATTACK!

Clouds of tempest lit up the piles of dust along the horizon.

Grasping at her numb sides, Minerva sighed as her emerald eyes traced the darkness of the moonless night. Floury darkness, stinging at her clad flesh.

Grains of dirt crumbled within her fingers. If a few month ago one would have told her of her future, Minerva would have just smiled. She did not expect to sleep on ground with starry sky surrounding her from every side, and wolves howling in the distance.  _Gods_ … she didn't even expect to fall in  _love_.

Her misty glance shifted over Gandalf's slumbering figure. Then back to the blank line of the horizon before.

A crashing wave of thunder rolled across the range of snowy mountains.

Clinging to her knees tighter, Minerva closed her burning eyes.

"You should rest," Aragorn said, gently biting on the end of his pipe.

"I'm on my watch."

He snorted lightly. "Your watch is long over."

Later, Minerva stepped over the piles of huddled bodies, before nestling beside her sleeping lover.

Gandalf was warm.

* * *

Minerva flinched awake at the cry that pulled her out of her dreams. Trying to calm her wild heart, she opened her emerald eyes.

"They are only sparring, my dear," Gandalf said.

And indeed, Pippin and Merry held swords in their hands, withholding against Boromir.

She sighed, covering her face.

"How are you feeling?" she heard him ask.

"Better," Minerva answered, shifting her head against his shoulder.

Her fingers fell into her lap while his arms held her tighter.

"How long—"

Her soft words were cut off by Legolas' cry, "Crebain of Dunland!"

Minerva straightened in her seat beside Gandalf.

"Hide!" Aragorn urged.

Within a wave of her hand, the pair of them was gone out of everyone's sight.

"Hurry!" she heard Boromir call.

The flock of black birds reached them sooner than the rest could hide. But as fast the birds were gone out of their sight.

Gandalf stood up, and she turned them visible, gathering herself up, too.

"What was that?" Minerva asked in silence.

With a cold expression, he answered, "Spies of Saruman. The passage south is being watched."

Minerva refused to notice the light pull at her heart.

"We must take the pass of Caradhras."

* * *

_Her mind was a haze of pain._

_Burning sensation spread from her thigh, irritating her sore flesh. Her vision was on the verge of blackening completely. She couldn't move._

" _Please!" a voice shrieked. "No!"_

_Her head shifted slightly, her body lying still in the mud._

_Her icy breath hitched._

_Through the weaving of her sight, she saw him. His shrill screams drummed in her ears. His wide eyes haunted her heart._

_A whimper left her as she tried to open her mouth, to reach, to help… But soon shouts were replaced by silence, by groans and clashing of teeth… of ripping of flesh…_

_Too late._

_Dark shadow clawed at his prone body. Sharp teeth ripped skin into pieces, pulling, tearing…_

_Blood. Blood splattered all around until the world turned to scarlet. And his curls were drenched in it. And his scarred face, with wild, lifeless eyes._

_The same monster grazed his throat... Chunk of flesh gulped by his disastrous mouth — and perhaps that boy felt what she had once…_

_The dark figure turned to gaze at her._

_She choked back her tears._

_Too late._

* * *

Gods.

Minerva found herself flying past huddled figures. And then running, stumbling in the darkness of the night.

And then she gave up, collapsing in the depths of snow. Just breathing, struggling with the sickness that filled her. Holding back her tears, Minerva fell to lay on her back, with piles of white powder melting and soaking through.

Her emerald eyes wildly stared at the starry sky above as frost insensibly bit her bare arms.

She wasn't going to sleep again.

* * *

"Aren't you witty, elf." Gimli frowned.

"Nay, Master Dwarf, no need for anger," Legolas said. "I was attempting a jest."

"You see," he answered. "That is why I used the word ' _witty_ '."

"You and your people can't take a simple joke," Legolas grumbled.

"From the kin who can't make them, Master Elf."

The blonde shrugged. "At least our sense of humour is not as dark and tasteless."

"But at least us, dwarves, use it wisely and appropriately, instead of letting unamusing remarks fly."

Legolas huffed in answer.

Minerva sighed, shooting them a glance. Rolling her eyes, she continued to stride along the snowy path, gazing at the snowy peaks before.

Frodo slipped, falling a few feet down. She turned around and saw Aragorn helping him… The ring was gone.

Minerva noticed it lying in the snow, but apparently Boromir saw it first. He took it.

"Boromir," Aragorn warned lightly.

The man whispered in answer, eyes set aflame with desire, "It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing...such a little thing."

"Boromir!" Isildur's heir tried again. "Give the ring to Frodo."

The man hesitated. Minerva didn't.

Within few steps, the woman faced the Gondorian man, staring into his cold eyes. He handed her the ring, and she leaned in to say a few words.

After, Minerva saw him leave her with wild eyes.

Her gaze descended upon the golden ring in her grasp. Pleasant warmth flooded her mind. It felt better than fire, better than fervour of Gandalf's body, better than…  _love_.

She gripped it tighter, relishing the feeling of power. She was blind to the monster who awoke within her, blind to the calls of the ones before. She only saw the ring.

"Minerva?" Frodo asked.

She shook her head a bit.

With a sigh, she threw him the golden chain.

When Minerva walked back to stand to stand beside Gandalf, he said knowingly, "It can corrupt anyone, dear."

She didn't say anything.

As the fellowship strode further and further, the wind doubled its reinforcements, bringing a snowstorm along. The hobbits sank in the piles of snow. Boromir and Aragorn decided to carry them.

Gritting her teeth, Minerva braced herself against the renewed ache of her back, where the ghostly wound lingered. Gandalf touched her fingers lightly, concern naked in his grey eyes.

"We can always stop," he said against the howling of the wind.

She squeezed his hand in reassurance. "I'll be fine."

The next thing they all knew, they were listening to words echoing in the air.

"There's a fell voice in the air!" Legolas called out.

Gandalf's expression changed. "It's Saruman!"

He began a thunderous spell of defence.

"He's trying to bring down the mountain, Gandalf!" Aragorn shouted. "We must turn back!"

"No!" The wizard shook his icy head.

He continued with spells, but a sudden lightning bolt cut it all off. The group threw themselves against the cliff.

Silence; the calmed mountaintop lay still again.

Legolas pulled Gimli out, the others following their suit.

"We must get off the mountain!" Boromir called, pulling Pippin and Merry closer. "Make for the gap of Rohan and take the West road to my city!"

"The gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" Aragorn answered.

"We cannot pass over the mountain," Gimli said. "Let us go under it. Let us go through the mines of Moria!"

Minerva observed the momentary fear that ran across Gandalf's features.

"Let the ringbeared decide," he intoned.

Frodo hesitated to answer, looking at her for help. "We will go through the mines," he said.

Gandalf nodded. "So be it."

A string of fear snapped inside Minerva, but she chose to ignore it.

* * *

Minerva gently reached for the mist, hovering within her fingers. Tracing the line of smoke, she sighed, drinking in the quiet hum of the ruins around.

Pillars of stone, crumbling in the clutches of illusion. A bridge, melting in the darkness of distant memories. Forgotten heroes, buried against the walls of pride and lost companionship.

The walls of Moria.

As her distant gaze caught a shadow in the depths of water around, Minerva stopped dead in her tracks. Cyan image flashed before, and she turned away quickly, taking a sharp breath of air.

"Dwarf doors are invisible when closed," she heard Gimli say.

Minerva picked up her pace after the group.

"Yes, Gimli," Gandalf agreed. "Their own masters cannot find them if their secrets are forgotten!"

Legolas mumbled under his breath, "Why doesn't that surprise me…"

Gimli grunted in response.

When her steps finally ceased, she heard Gandalf sigh in awe against the grey stone. "Ithildin," he said with marvel in his eyes. "It mirrors only starlight and moonlight."

Pale light illuminated his figure, falling across the ancient markings of the door. A twinkle appeared in Minerva's emerald eyes.

"It reads, 'The door of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak friend and enter," Gandalf translated, tracing the elvish runes.

"What do you suppose that means?" Merry asked.

The wizard smiled in delight. "Oh! It's quite simple!" he said. "If you are a friend, speak the password and the doors will open."

Minerva raised an eyebrow as he changed his pose to a rather humorous one. " _Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen_!" Gandalf commanded to the door.

But the wizard was left to battle his own confusion, disregarding Minerva's light smirk of amusement. Shooting her a glance, he continued, " _Fennas Nogothrim, lasto beth lammen_!"

Gimli grunted in agitation, earning a look from Legolas.

"Nothing's happening," Pippin said.

Ignoring him, Gandalf mumbled under his breath, "I once knew every spell in all the tongues of elves, men and orcs…"

"What're you going to do then?" Pippin asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took!" he answered in furry. "And if that does not shatter them and I'm allowed a little peace from foolish questions I will try to find the opening words."

With a sigh, Minerva sat down on the shore, water waving within a grasp of her fingers.

A minute. Three minutes. Five minutes… Nothing was happening.

Her uneasy mind finally drifted away. Emerald eyes turned to gaze at the two hobbits skipping stones into the dim lake. Emotionless pair of eyes that pled to be saved flashed before her.

"Oh no…" she whispered, tearing herself away to stare at the ground. "No-no-no…"

Her lungs collapsed inside her chest.

"Not again…" Minerva mumbled, covering her eyes.

Her heart tripled its calm pace.

_He was going to die._

She jumped on her legs, trying to take air deeper into her lungs. But only a minute after Minerva had to bend over, hands on knees gripping at the numb skin.

_He was going to drown._

She tried to breathe, but she couldn't. She tried to think, but her mind was blank. She wanted to run, but her body froze in one place.

A firm hand gripped her stiff shoulder. Minerva heard his voice. She felt his touch.

"He's— he's going to… drown," she breathed out, minding the tightness in her chest.

Her fingers grew numb. Her heartbeat picked up even more.

Minerva felt him turn at the two hobbits who stared at them from nearby the lake.

"Get away from it," Gandalf said and turned back at her. "They won't go near it, love."

She nodded, choking back a laugh.

"I'd rather be having… a heart-attack," Minerva whispered and finally collapsed on her knees.

He smiled in response, crouching before her.

For a few minutes he talked, and she listened.

Her heart slowed. Her lungs relaxed.

"I'd sell my soul for a drink…" Minerva trailed, raising her eyes to meet his.

She noticed the mischievous glint in his eyes. "I thought I heard you say you won't ever drink again,  _sweetheart._ "

"Fool," Minerva grunted, slipping his grey hat on his eyes.

A moment later she heard Frodo ask a question, "What's the elvish word for a friend?"

" _Mellon_ ," Gandalf answered.

The hidden door swung open.

"See?" he whispered with a smile. "Luck is on our side."

_She was lucky_ , Minerva mused as Gandalf helped her stand up.

The fellowship walked into the dark mine.

"Soon, Mr. Elf, you will enjoy the fabelled hospitality of the dwarves. Roaring fires! Malt Beer! Red Meat off the bone!" Gimli said with a laugh. "This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin and they call it a  _mine_!" He snorted. "A mine!"

Gandalf lit up his wooden staff.

Minerva felt her body tense at the dim image of bones, scattered across the dirt. She gripped her bow tighter as her eyes noticed weapons, crumbled into pieces by time, helmets, crushed by pressure, shields, axes, arrows — all hidden under layers of dust and blood.

"This is no mine," Boromir said. "It's a tomb!"

"No-no-no-no!" Gimli cried out, collapsing on his knees.

Before Legolas looked down at him gravely, he pulled out an arrow from a skull. "Goblins," he spat, throwing it away.

Minerva drew out her wand and heard Aragorn and Boromir unsheathe their swords.

"We make for the gap of Rohan," the latter man said. "We should have never come here. Now get out of here! Get out!"

With a cry Frodo fell on the ground, being dragged into the water. Minerva paled visibly as she turned around to aim at the thing that threatened them. With tentacles, slimy and dark, it held onto the hobbit — a squid?

"Strider!" Sam screamed, trying to free his friend. "Get off him!"

_Perfect_ , Minerva thought, working to get a clear aim,  _luck is definitely on our side._

Her wand dropped on the ground as a tentacle grabbed Pippin.

Gasping, Minerva felt the world around slow down. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her vision cleared as if she were in her animagus form. Her breathing turned shallow. Blood drummed in her ears.

Quiver, backpack, bow — all fell on the ground as Minerva raced out of the cave, a simple dagger swinging in her hand. Pushing past the two men, she found herself hips-deep in the freezing water.

Her trembling hand reached for Pippin, who screamed and trashed in the deadly grip of the monster. And just as energy renewed in her limbs, a slimy tentacle wrapped around her own waist.

"You wish," she grunted.

The silver blade slashed the wet skin, colourless blood splashing against her. Frodo was caught by Boromir, while Pippin… fell into the water. Minerva frantically finished chopping off the tentacle, bracing herself against the wave of water beneath.

_Oh, no._

Lifeless eyes, pleading to be saved.

_No._

She was too late.

_It only took a minute._

As Minerva drowned in the liquid around, her eyes closed in pain. He was there, floating in the depths, within a reach of her hand. Golden curls, dull eyes… Lifeless…

No.

Shoving the dagger between her gritted teeth, Minerva grabbed Pippin from behind. Her arms wrapped under his hands and around his chest, dragging him back to the coast. And when she resurfaced, Minerva threw him over her shoulder, crawling away from the cursed lake.

The beast tore everything in frustration as she ran straight into the mine, collapsing on her knees. She only saw dust pile up as tentacles brought down the main entrance.

Minerva laid Pippin down. Without a word she jumped upwards and began pacing around, trying to get rid of the flow of energy.

A minute later of playing with her dagger, she heard the final words of Gandalf.

"He's dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	9. Love is an illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is like time — an illusion. Minerva is the one to understand the meaning of these words.

Minerva heard a cry.

"He isn't," she answered, stopping in her tracks. "He can't be."

"Minerva…" Gandalf trailed with a sigh.

"He can't…" She shoved the knife into a wall. "…be."

There were tears. There were whimpers. There was silence.

Merry tried to speak with a lifeless body. Boromir did, too.

Arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer to warmth. "I'm sorry," Mithrandir whispered. "I really am."

"But I tried," Minerva choked out against his chest. "I tried to deny his fate… You know I did—"

Blood still pounded in her ears. Her heart never slowed its pace.

"I know. There's nothing we can do."

Silence.

Gently pushing away from Gandalf, Minerva carefully limped to Pippin's lifeless body. A hand grasped her shoulder, but she only slapped it away.

"I hope you deserve it," she mumbled, kneeling down beside him.

She summoned her dagger. On his wrist, she cut a line.

Boromir tried to stop her. "Minerva—"

"Save your words," she answered.

Another line. An arc, followed by an identical one. And a simple dot.

With a scream, Pippin opened his blue eyes.

* * *

Minerva looked at her arm. Seven rings.

Her heart still raced in her chest, even minutes after the beginning of it all. Her breaths were still shallow. Her body resisted any attempts of rest.

Grabbing her bow from the ground, Minerva continued to pace around the dark cave.

Pippin looked pale, sitting next to Merry. Distant. Empty.

"It's that way!" Gandalf exclaimed, interrupting her thoughts.

The witch shook her head and fled up the stairs.

"He's remembered!" Merry cried out with a jump.

"No," The wizard stood up, "but the air doesn't smell so foul down here. If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose."

With a smile, he entered the dark tunnel ahead.

Continuing their path through the mines, the fellowship paced through the realm of Dwarrowdelf. Minerva fled a few steps before them, leaving them behind with their amazed expressions.

It reminded her of Halls of Mandos. Columns, ornaments, darkness. But there were no stars.

"Minerva," Gandalf said. "It's time for us to stop."

She turned around sharply.

"We are all tired." He walked towards her. "So are you."

Behind his back, others sat down on the ground.

Gandalf took her hand in his. "Let's sit down."

"I really shouldn't…"

He led her to the campsite. "You really should."

His hands slowly worked on getting rid of her weapons.

He crouched opposite to her. Pressing his fingers to her neck, he sighed.

"How long?" Gandalf asked.

"Half an hour perhaps," she answered, covering his hand with hers.

"It's rather unusual to have an adrenalin rush for half an hour."

Minerva flinched at the sound of a cup hitting the ground. "I'm not—"

"— having an adrenalin rush?" His eyebrows rose. "Then how would you explain the constriction of your pupils, the racing heart, or the power to slash monsters with a dagger?"

"Power of fear."

She heard someone snicker.

Gandalf shook his head. "You could have given a word."

"You ask too much of me."

* * *

Minerva murmured a few words before opening her emerald eyes. A shaking hand rested on her shoulder.

She shifted her head in the darkness of the halls.

" _Lumos_ ," Minerva casted a spell, pulling out her wand. "Peregrin?"

The hobbit stared at her with wide eyes.

Fixing her glasses, Minerva gently let go of Gandalf's sleeping form, a murmur reaching her ears. She sat up before the kneeling hobbit.

"Something's the matter?" she whispered.

_A stupid thing to ask_.

Minerva dropped her wand as Pippin flung at her. His fingers gripped at her cloak, his head lay buried against her neck.

Whispering ' _nox_ ', she wrapped her arms around his trembling form.

They sat in the dusted silence.

"Can you see him?" he asked. "A man?"

"Which one?" she murmured back. "… how does he look?"

"Silent… dark… with black hair…"

Minerva gazed at the distant shadows of halls.

He tensed lightly. "Tell him to leave me alone… please."

She ran her fingers through his golden curls, eyes dark with sleep, but couldn't force herself to answer.

* * *

"Gimli!" Gandalf cried out after the running dwarf.

The fellowship emerged from their thoughts.

Following in, Minerva felt her arm grow numb in discomfort. Once again shields, bones and scattered weapons fell into her field of vision. Dust, silver webs, colourless blood — all reminded of a rather poor Halloween party.

Minerva held her thoughts to herself.

"No-no-no…" Gimli cried, kneeling before the white tomb.

Just like the one on Hogwarts' ground.

Deep inside the pit of her boiling mind, she felt a stab at her partly stable emotions.

"Here lies Balin, son of Fundin … Lord of Moria," Gandalf read from the engraved stone. "He is dead. It is as I feared."

Minerva found herself to be deaf to the cries of the fallen dwarf. And then ground slid from under her feet.

_Albus. Albus. Albus_  — her mind screamed.

She had almost forgotten the sound of his name. The image of his smile. The fall from a tower…

She wasn't supposed to feel guilty. He was the one who left. Albus Dumbledore left her, and she found a replacement.

Replacement? … The man who Minerva loved was just a replacement.

But … wasn't her love just an illusion?

A loud crash caused her to blink a few times.

"Fool of a Took!" Gandalf spat. "Throw in yourself next time, and rid us of your stupidity!"

Minerva drew out her wand. "Leave him," she said, staring into his grey eyes. "We were dead from the moment we entered this cursed cave. It's not his fault."

Drums in the depths of the halls rung in their ears.

"It never was," Minerva finished.

With a turn, she saw Boromir's figure off with a glance as he ran to the door. She changed her wand for a drawn bow.

"Get back!" Aragorn called to the hobbits. "Stay close to the Istari!"

Minerva ignored the familiar title, shielding four figures behind.

"They have a cave troll!" Boromir warned.

She followed their poor attempts to barricade the entry with dusted weapons. Nothing was going to hold off the flow of the enemies.

Beside her, Gandalf drew out Glamdring; the hobbits followed his wise movement. Minerva casted a spell of defense — nothing to help save their lives, but enough to suppress the drumming of her heart.

"Let them come!" Gimli cried from the alabaster tomb. "There is one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath!"

Within half of a second later, the doors collided with the ground. Minerva's vision swarm with images of orcs, flooding the seemly empty chamber, blood rushed into her ears.

A minute of battle later, she found that she had lost the four hobbits from her range of vision. Her arrows, well-aimed and deadly, pierced hearts, heads and bodies while her fingers relentlessly pulled the rough string of the bow. Once, and only once her glance met Gandalf's fiery one.

The next few seconds were through a haze. Within one swing, her bow stuck between a set of black eyes — Minerva didn't bother to pull it out. She stabbed a brainless rat with the last of her arrows. Another orc fell before her as her sword swung across its neck. The next one got a taste of her knuckles.

So that's the troll Boromir had warned about.

Arrows rebounded off of its chest, blade couldn't graze its skin. Sam ducked the lunge of its giant club, diving beneath its legs. As Minerva beheaded another orc, she noticed how the blond hobbit avoided its enormous ripples, fleeing across the battlefield.

Fortunately, two of the men kin pulled back the broken end of the chain around its neck. The confused troll stumbled backwards, gazing at yet another target. And the one who fell into its limited field of vision was Gandalf.

His back was on the troll.

_Curse that fool_ , Minerva spat in her mind as she made her way towards his blind form. The troll swung his club; she dropped her sword, running across the ground.

She pushed Gandalf out of her way. The last second, Minerva pulled out her wand, turning with a cry, " _Expelliarmus!_ "

The wooden club flew from its grip and crashed against the white tomb.

Legolas' arrow pierced the orc behind her. She nodded at his direction. Summoning back her sword, Minerva continued to slice at the renewed ranks of the enemy.

She didn't turn to meet his grey eyes.

The troll now chased after the four hobbits, who were all behind columns. Minerva missed a sinister blow to the back of her head. By sheer luck, it didn't crack anything inside, nor did it split her head in half. It only felt like it did.

Blinking a few times, Minerva tried to bring her vision to normal. She rose from her kneeling stance as a grey figure defended her from orcs. Taking a deep breath, she fought against the wave of pain.

As blood drummed deep inside her, she fell deaf to the sounds of raging battle. Minerva flung forward. Her sword was gone, she had her wand within her clutch. And her obscure target was the same troll, aiming to plunge its stake into a dark-haired figure.

Stumbling and cursing, Minerva flew against all odds to save.

" _Expellia_ —"

Her wand slipped out of her grip as a contrary force collided with her body. She felt her back collapse against the wooden stake that the troll held. Her bag softened her fall and drag across the ground.

A sharp screech above her pulled Minerva out of the threatening darkness. She ignored the breath-taking pain in her abdomen. And a cry of a name.

Pulling the knife out of the orc's grasp, she kicked it off. And then stabbed it. She didn't count how many times the dark dagger slashed against its rough skin. But neither did she care to do it.

After feeling her arm grow numb, Minerva stopped. She threw the knife away and turned around. She stumbled to the lying form of that dark-haired somebody.

Frodo.

With shaking hands, she turned him over. He groaned.

_He groaned._

"He's alive!" Sam cried out.

"I'm alright," Frodo answered with a half-smile. "I'm not hurt."

"You should be dead," Aragorn said.

Minerva leaned her back against the column.

Gandalf smiled. "I think there's more to this hobbit than meets the eye."

She only stared at her hand, covered in a familiar liquid.

"Mithril!" Gimli cried out. "You are full of surprises, Master Baggins!"

Her gaze met Pippin's.

"Perhaps I shall tell him today, Peregrin," she said, clutching at her tunic. Her voice quivered.

She couldn't see the one before her.

The seventh ring on her wrist slowly crumbled to nothing.

* * *

The fellowship crossed the corner of the hall; Minerva saw how weary Gandalf's movements were.

"Gandalf?" Aragorn asked him in concern.

"Lead them on, Aragorn," he answered. "The bridge is near."

The man hesitated.

"Do as I say!" Gandalf pushed him forward. "Swords are no more use here."

They continued to run, but she only felt her arm grow numb, and her heart freeze in fear.

The fellowship stumbled down a set of stairs. A gap between steps stopped their pacing.

Legolas was the first one to jump, calling Gandalf afterwards. The wizard crossed it without hesitation.

"Merry! Pippin!" Boromir cried out.

With a roar, he jumped across the pit, pulling the two of the hobbits along. A great piece of set crumbled away.

"Sam!" Aragorn called.

Minerva followed his flying across air form. Four left to cross.

Gimli cut Aragorn off, "Nobody tosses a dwarf!"

He leaped across the depth with a roar. Without Legolas' pull of his fiery red beard, he would have never reached the other end.

"Mind the beard!" he cried out.

Minerva watched how arrows rebounded off her casted shield.

The gap was now too wide to cross.

"Hold on!" She heard Aragorn call. "Lean forward!"

The piece of bridge dangerously swayed front.

Aragorn pulled Frodo closer and both of them reach the other end of the stairs before it collapsed completely.

Minerva waited for the two of them to catch up, had apparated just moments before them. Catching Gandalf's relieved glance, Minerva followed after the fellowship.

"Over the bridge!" the wizard called as they reached their destination. "Fly!"

Skipping across the thin stone, the witch did not dare to gaze back. And only when she heard the dark beast roar behind them, she turned around.

Gandalf stood in the middle of the bridge. The creature from visions, licked by fire and flames, monster of forgotten legends, Isildur's bane — faced the grey figure of the ancient Maia.

"You cannot pass!" His solemn words drummed in her ears.

A roar of mock was the answer from the one before.

Frodo cried out beside her, "Gandalf!"

Minerva sheathed her sword.

"I am the servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor," Gandalf chanted, raising his staff. "The dark will not avail you, flame of Udûn!"

White light blinded Minerva's wondering eyes. And she could only hope for faith to change itself without her intervening.

The shield of power was met by a dim sword of flames. The clash still rung in her ears.

"Go back to the shadow!" Gandalf spat in anger.

In answer, the ancient demon slashed his whip across the thick air.

Raising his staff, the wizard threw his final words, " _YOU SHALL NOT PASS_!"

Silence, breath-taking silence where she heard her heartbeat.

And for the last time the Balrog roared. And for the last time it was seen by her emerald eyes. And finally, the bridge crumbled into dust.

His grey eyes met hers. From within meters that separated them, Minerva sensed his relief and the rush of adrenaline.

But once again, life did not agree.

Gandalf fell, dragging along her final string of hope.

And Minerva found herself in need to run, to reach and grab his hand…

But she only stood and gazed. She gazed at his silver hair, at his fingers, digging into dust, his arms, tensed and too sore for another second to hold on, the texture of his grey robes — but never at his eyes.

Were they blue? Were they pleading? Were they angry, or were they bitter, heartbroken?

She wouldn't know, for not once did she meet them.

"Fly, you fools." And then he was gone, with his last words written under her skin.

Minerva didn't feel the pair of arms around her, pulling her back. She didn't hear the words screamed from distance. She didn't… She didn't save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	10. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hardest thing to do is to say goodbye.

It hurt.

No matter how hard Minerva tried to deny, it did hurt. From the tips of her scarred fingers, to the ripped skin against her abdomen.

But it wasn't emotional pain. There, nothing waved, only calm flow of her mind distracted her further.

As Minerva stood carving the rough skin of an oak, she focused on the movements of her dagger.

"We should carry on until the dawn comes," Aragorn spoke softly.

Engraving the last of lines, Minerva straightened her bearing. With a shaking breath she sheathed her splattered dagger.

She left a mark behind her. The one embroidered in the depths of blackness of her attire. The one lingering as a scar on Peregrin's wrist. The one she would mark her enemy with.

Even if she never came back, it would linger there as a memory of who she once was.

"What's on your mind?" the man asked later, striding beside her across the golden forest of Lothlorien.

Minerva held back a sigh. "Absolutely nothing."

"I see," he trailed courteously. "Perhaps you need a hand with your wound?"

"It shall heal," she answered simply. "Time heals all wounds."

Aragorn snorted lightly. "I assume these words are not of those visible wounds."

"Either way," Minerva waved her hand, "it will heal."

"The dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark," an elf said to Minerva's surprise.

At the tip of his sharp arrow, Gimli grunted under his breath. But the spark of alarm that darkened Aragorn's eyes was long gone.

* * *

" _Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion,_ " the leader of the elves said in his native speech, greeting the blonde archer of the fellowship.

" _Govannas vîn gwennen le, Haldir o Lórien_ _,_ " he answered in the same, only for a few of the group understandable speech.

The elf turned to look at the others, until his eyes met Strider's blue ones. " _A, Aragorn in Dúnedain istannen le ammen._ "

The two bowed at each other courteously. Gimli grumbled angrily in the background.

"So much for the legendary courtesy of the elves! Speak words we can all understand!" he said.

Gimli's criticism was met by Haldir's sharp words, "We have not had dealing with the dwarves since the  _dark days_."

"And you know what this dwarf says to that?" he mocked back. " _Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!_ "

Minerva rolled her eyes at the sight of Aragorn disciplining Gimli. She only wished to still. And neither they would pass this forest nor drop to rest in tents if they continued with words.

"You bring great evil with you," Haldir said to Frodo. "You can go no further."

_That's it._

The witch pushed past Aragorn who gave a weak attempt to stop her. Perhaps he wished the same as she — rest and oblivion.

"Do you know who I am?" she spoke to the blonde elf in a warning. Her words were met by silence. "I am the sixth Istar."

A glimmer of surprise showed in his eyes.

"If Sauron does reward Lothlorien with a visit, direct him to me," Minerva said. "Now let us pass."

"You will follow me."

* * *

Minerva gracefully made her way up the crystal staircase, carefully glancing sideways — it was too dim to discern any particular detail of her surroundings. But nothing about this place seemed familiar.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Boromir said beside her.

She gazed at the elves, settled against the wide tree branches — even too wide to be found in the forbidden forest back home. Lights danced against all that lurked in the shadows; dusted moonlight fell upon the golden ground, shimmering before her emerald eyes.

Silver light touched her own pale face, revealing her changed by time contours, saddened and deserted of feelings. But not only her body did the time change.

"It is," Minerva answered softly.

Last three steps and the pair reached the silver top. The witch chose a place behind the rest, lurking in the depths of shadows. Her eyes rose unnoticeably as she noted the two figures descending down a staircase.

Two elves of high roamed before the fellowship — showered in starlight and silver of the full moon. Their hands were clasped together, bond tighter than her eyes perceived, and they slowly stepped down — time was none of their concern.

The woman appeared young … but old at the same time. Experienced eyes met her own as Minerva traced her ageless features. Golden hair brought out the brightness of her skin that had never been marked, neither with blade nor time.

The male beside her seemed calm, with a bearing of an ancient warrior.

"The enemy knows you have entered her," he said. "What hope you had in secrecy is now gone." His gaze unsettled Aragorn. "Nine there are here, yet ten there were set out from Rivendell."

Minerva's eyes fell.

"Tell me where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him," he continued. "I can no longer see him from afar."

"Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land. He has fallen into shadow," the female elf whispered in sudden realisation, her voice mingled with sadness.

"He was taken by both shadow and flame," Legolas sliced the silence. "A balrog of Morgoth. For we went needlessly into the net of Moria."

Gimli bowed his head slightly as the woman spoke up once again. "Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life. We do not yet know his full purpose." The dwarf sighed and the elf showered him in kind words. "Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dûm fill your heart, Gimli, son of Gloin… For the world has grown full of peril and in all lands love is now mingled with grief."

Her piercing blue eyes turned to Boromir. Fear changed his resting expression, words that belonged to her frightened him beyond anything. His eyes watered and he broke the painful contact.

' _It is rather impolite to mess with one's head,'_  Minerva entered her mind.

The woman before her smiled, gazing into her eyes.  _'A child of the Valar,'_  she replied,  _'I see the count of your lives is significantly different from what I have expected.'_

' _Neither have I.'_

Galadriel nodded at her direction unnoticeably.

"What now becomes of this fellowship?" The male elf said seriously. "Without Gandalf, hope is lost."

"The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail to the ruin of all." The golden-haired woman spoke again. "Yet hope remains while the company is true… Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest for you are weary with sorrow and much toil… Tonight, you will sleep."

Sooner or later, Minerva dropped on her bedroll with a stifled groan. Never had her joints felt so weary before.

A sigh escaped her as she wrapped herself in a duvet, squeezing her burning eyes shut. A melody — cold, distant, sorrowful, reached her ears before the only thing she could hear was her own heartbeat.

And for the first time in weeks, Minerva fell asleep without him by her side.

* * *

Minerva opened her colourless eyes.

In instinct, she shifted to her left, searching for the familiar warmth … but he wasn't there.

And finally, within one glance into the emptiness of the night, Minerva McGonagall felt the world around her crumble into nothing.

It hit her unawares — a crucial blow to her heart; a bolt of lightning against her calm mind; an axe of guilt depriving her of the privilege of drawing breath. A light touch of the briefly forgotten madness coronated it all; hidden vision recurred within her scorching head as if a storm of heat tore every inch of her being.

Gandalf the Grey, supposedly crossed out from her life, rose yet again from within the piles of ashes that her heart was.

Wiping at her teary eyes, Minerva seized herself and flew: without destination and without the usual stealth of her armoured mind. And perhaps for the first time she truly was vulnerable to the monster within her.

Green, golden, silver, obsidian — all flew before her blind to all eyes. All Minerva saw was his eyes, all she heard was his words, and all she felt was the crippling desolation without him.

Minerva asked herself over and over the same question — would it hurt so much if she didn't love him? And as she collapsed on her knees in the crystal blue of the dim lake, she knew that the answer couldn't be anything else but negative.

Her bitters tears dripped down her skin, stinging her fingers that lay against her mouth. With wide eyes she gazed at the never-ending lake as realization chopped her sanity into pieces.

"How could I?" Minerva whispered against her hand.

She shook her dark head in denial, letting her arms be soaked in the chilly water. "I let him die."

Putting thoughts into words seemed to aggravate the reality further.

Her emerald eyes slid across the surface of lake under her. Her face, covered in blood, dirt and dust — unrecognizable when compared to her past self, before wars or within them. Her square glasses, cracked and dusty, wouldn't fit her anymore — they  _couldn't_  fit her.

With a firm hand Minerva pulled them away. Scarlet red drops trickled down her trembling fingers, crushing glass within them. And she threw them — as far as her restless body let her.

She kneeled in the water and let it soak through; she let the tempestuous wind stiffen her skin, the starless sky to sting her eyes. For hours Minerva sat in the depths of blue; her tears had long dried off, her emotions long gone from her stone cold face.

Námo was with her. Without a word he swathed her hand. Ever so slowly his own fingers brushed against her cheeks — darkened and pale, too pale even for a being from the sunless Scotland, and they wiped away her sorrow and the blood within her. And just as soon he disappeared, draping a coat of silver over her slumped shoulders.

Staring at the sky, Minerva knew only one certain thing — Gandalf the Grey was gone.

* * *

The once colourful person had diminished — all left of her was a dull feather, soaring along the course of the wind. Her eyes had always been lively — now they were but emotionless pits of darkness, blind to all around. Her powers grew thin; an inseparable part of her was gone. Her obsidian hair began greying — lightly, just enough for her to shut down completely.

Emerald eyes trailed along the path of smoke and ash, traveling against the current of wind. Smoking ember glimmered in the darkness of the moonless night, embellishing the colourless grass under. Flames of golden fire danced gracefully in a silent whisper, insensibly casting shadows upon her drained face.

As all around her slouching form wandered in the depths of dreams, Minerva's empty stare slid to the sheet amid her fingers. A letter, found when no one searched for it. Stamped it was with waxen seal of red — untouched by the fingers of strangers, seen by none but her.

A privilege it'd be if not the mark engraved on it.

Minerva's hands trembled slightly — was it anticipation or dread she couldn't tell. Her eyes closed; she could already feel the familiar stinging in their corners.

She tried to prepare herself, staring at the markings across the envelope. She didn't want to open it. She didn't want to see his words. But as she sat with her knees hovering before her eyes, she knew she had to.

Eventually, her fingers broke the waxen seal.

There were more than enough sheets of paper inside — words scribbled, crossed out, written with different shades of ink. Stains of vine and black flourish spattered on the surface betrayed how long it had been worked on. And how difficult it had been to write.

And finally, her emerald eyes slid against the first words.

_My dear Minerva,_

_The only reason why you have this unfortunate privilege to read my words is because I met my lamentable fate._

Minerva sighed as she felt a bitter taste form in the back of her nagging throat. Why couldn't he die in silence?

_I have so much of what I have to speak, but words, the one thing I am great at finding, that would be worth scribbling on paper, came to me but after a fortnight of restless nights. And although these spent moments were by your side, I only felt guilt for having to write a letter to clarify my actions. And perhaps after you read this, I shall be fortunate enough to receive your understanding._

A muted snort escaped her as her emerald eyes ran through his last sentence. He certainly deserved his title of a fool if he thought he could patch it all with a single letter.

_Firstly, I'd like you to acknowledge a memory of mine. It is from the time when I could roam the distant lands of pure green — where Gods cross paths with all that is sacred, where blood has never been spilled, and where stars bring light brighter than hope. I remember but one image from my past life — a pair of eyes. They were welcoming, warm, and ever so piercing. This memory is the reason why I wandered across Middle-Earth restlessly — I had to find the owner of my heart. And this obscure_ _feeling favoured me with hope which I could share with all pure of evil._

_For the rest of my years I eased my mind of counting days that passed. I only searched for something to fill the endless void within my soul. Naturally, I fell in love — over and over again, but never was it of kind that could make me whole again. I dreamt of the countless tales I would tell them — of mountains golden, of dragons burning, of talking trees and wind … of hobbits, even. And when my search at last was over, I found you. It was you, Minerva, who was my hope and courage, my rope and the knife that cuts it, my stars and my moon. And that memory of your emerald eyes is the one and only proof I was ever in need of to know that my love for you is endless and unbreakable. That is why I fell for you blindly and without my usual wisdom intervening._

Minerva cursed in her mind as she felt her eyes grow blind to his words, her vision but a mist of tears.

_I swear to Nienna, dear, this was not meant to be a letter of my love confessions, but if you are still running through my words, I'd like you to know that I love you. I fell for you slowly — and then all at once. Why? I would never be able to complete the list, even with my immortality. But with your first attempt to murder me, I discovered your boundless bravery and boldness. I adore your unpredictable temper — the main cause of my sleepless hours by your side. A rather likely culprit of your own ending: your stubbornness and the Scottish pride. And even if it pains me to admit, I love your self-sacrificing nature. But I also fell for your hardest to come upon side — tender, never lacking in loyalty, passion and forgiveness. And I could never forget the power you hold within you — I got a taste of it myself. And to me, my love, you are more than your godly name._

_This letter was supposed to be the one to express my farewell. And I will tell you my final words. For your own sake perceive, Minerva, that the only thing defying you is your actions. Never prophecies are fulfilled the way they were told — it is how well you can strategize your fate. Predictions are not and never shall be a guide of life, nor will they all come to face truth. Perhaps evil of this world shall fall without your hand intervening. Bear one thing — never lose faith in your companions; Frodo shall fulfil his own destiny. I advise you to consider the possibility I could never even think of — forgive. Excuse all those whose mistakes are foolish enough to be justified. Remember one last advice of mine — do not give into the dark side. Voldemort's spell is nothing compared to you, Minerva, and never shall it reign above your mind. I believe in your strength to resist._

Minerva straightened her bearing and reviewed the last sentence, underlined with a firm hand.

_My last wish is for you to grieve not, nor to feel guilt for what I will do to myself. It is only my fault for leaving you before I could tell you of my endless journeys, before you could hear of my love for you enough times. It is my choice — for the future of the fellowship, for the future of this world. I apologize and wish you all well._

_Forever yours,_

_Gandalf the Grey_

With her infamous empty gaze, Minerva continued to trail the rising path of smoke above. Her trembling fingers carefully wiped at the corners of her aching eyes as she watched the fire calmly swallow the porcelain paper.

Sheet after sheet she threw into the roaring flame, with blank stare following how white turned to ashes. Bitter smoke gnawed her drained eyes, heat licked her numb skin, his words turned into nothing. His  _lies_  turned into nothing.

"Idiot," Minerva spat, covering her eyes in despair. "Idiot with a golden tongue."

* * *

Minerva straightened her bearing slightly as her eyes met a pair of blue ones in a battle against all odds.

"You inquired for me?" she asked, never losing her toneless note.

Galadriel flashed her a brilliant smile, one she would never lose from her memory. "Indeed I have,  _Validhreniel_."

"It's Minerva, actually," she corrected. "It's rather late for a meeting, wouldn't you agree?"

"Whereas your nights have been sleepless of late."

Minerva frowned lightly but held herself from giving an answer.

"Let us make ourselves comfortable then, shall we?"

The witch felt her eyebrows rise as Galadriel spread her arm out for her to take. Minerva traced her skin visibly — untouched by the long hands of harm, bared to the soft light of the sun, but flawless nevertheless. The woman before her smiled at her apparent wandering gaze. Her blue eyes felt dreamy and soothing in the moonlight as she followed her every movement. Charmed by her godly aura, Minerva let her fingers touch hers.

She was seated across the elven highness — by a table of whitened wood. But a moment ago her delicate fingers had brushed against the azure markings, adoring her porcelain skin, and a strange wave of tranquility washed over her. Her sapphire irises held the witch rooted to a spot, but Minerva couldn't claim that the hypnotizing eye-contact was particularly unpleasant.

"Tea, perhaps?" Galadriel suggested gently.

"Vine, preferably."

Minerva was wary of the sight of the Lady of Light pouring crimson into a glass — slowly, deliberately dragging their encounter into the dawn. Briefly, she was struck by the unearthly shimmer in her eyes, so much so she missed the kind tone of her inquiring voice.

The witch flinched in response as Galadriel's elegant hand came to rest upon her frozen skin.

"Let me into your mind, Minerva," she murmured tenderly.

Emerald eyes closed fleetingly and she dared to answer in return, "A mind of a stranger might not be the finest place to wander. Especially for a second time."

"You jest, yet your mind is going astray."

By the time Minerva regained her vision, Galadriel had diminished into air. And so had all within her.

There she sat the next moment— as the strict teacher of transfiguration, marking a pile of familiar essays. The obsidian quill between her fingers swiftly crossed words of non-sense; these were the works of third-years, certainly. And this one belonged to Ron Weasley himself.

The scenery changed: a night of full moon, she ran on the spring time grounds of Hogwarts. A bright light of red filled Minerva's vision, and the memory changed. Even after all these years she could still feel the same burning sensation in her chest.

A pair of grey eyes flew across — belonged they to Saruman the White. And the one whom he left scars on was Gandalf the Grey.  _Traitor._

Rain. Warmth. A memory Minerva would always carry in her scarred heart — a memory of his lips, of his hands, of his crystal grey eyes.

Once again she lived through the slaughter that had carved a sign onto her. There was Elrond, Námo, Aragorn, Boromir, Frodo — they all were but flashes of her memoir.

Past.

Minerva let Galadriel continue her delving through her mind. The elven highness rummaged through her past in heist, searching, never dwelling onto a single image.

Until she paused.

She decided upon the memory not long ago created: the last morning before their unwished depart from Imladris. Right after Minerva lastly parted with the softness of his bed sheets.

_Leaves and the early frost of the morning crunched under her feet, grass bent, earth slumped against her light steps. She strode quietly through the luminous fog, her emerald eyes ever so attentively glancing around._

_Her steps ceased as Minerva reached the only marked pine in the whole limitless wood. A crimson strip of silk — a reminder, a sign of a resting place. A resting place of piles of ashes._

_Gandalf had mentioned her how they cremated the bodies of the eight of her enemies. Or what was left of them._

_Within her lightly trembling fingers, she held a handful of golden seeds. Kneeling, Minerva slowly spilled them on by one; the crumbling soil hid them within a touch of her hand. She planted flowers as a memory. As an apology._

" _It is impolite to stare," she said with a light tug at the corners of her mouth. "From behind, especially."_

_A final touch of her hand evened out the friable ground — it could bloom one day._

" _I wouldn't call it staring," the man answered. "I was merely observing."_

_Brushing her palms clean, Minerva rose to her feet with a turn. Gandalf smiled at her fondly, his sapphire eyes ever flaming under his ashen eyebrows._

" _I'm glad you're here with me," she spoke softly._

_Within a step he cradled her hands in his. "I'm with you until the very end, Minerva."_

_When Gandalf gathered her in his arms, and she clung to him in despair, she muttered quietly against his shoulder, "If I never come back to Rivendell—"_

"— _you will."_

" _But if I don't…" She pulled back slightly to meet his hesitating gaze. "I want you to visit this place."_

_With a sigh, he tipped his head in defeat. "And if I never come back," he murmured. "I want you to return this."_

_The red strip of silk is what he showed her. The mark, the reminder._

" _Have it with you," Gandalf said, gently taking a hold of her arm._

_She held her breath as his fingers trailed up her bare skin — warm, soothing, trembling. He let the fabric glide against her upper arm, tenderly wrapping it in the cool to touch, slippery material._

" _Return it," he whispered, securing the silk blindly._

_And with a single kiss, he took away her breath._

Minerva lowered her glass steadily, gazing through the crimson liquid. She followed Galadriel's sparkling eyes, swallowing against the drumming in her throat.

"Neither of us will come back," Minerva stated with a familiar blankness in her voice. She rose to her feet as the fabric around her arm shimmered into visibility promptly. "So why bother?"

She let it fall on the table. Without another word, Minerva left Galadriel to sit and gaze at the crimson material.

And for the first time in a fortnight Minerva could rest — the darkness of Voldemort's curse finally found a crack within her.

* * *

"Do not be afraid, Minerva," Galadriel coaxed gently.

Her raven strands of hair fell upon her face as Minerva shook her head plainly in answer.

"You dread," she murmured. "You dread of what you have given into."

The smoothness of her fingers still lingered upon her marked skin — serene, frosty, as gentle as a mid-summer breeze. And they were entwined in the heap of Minerva's obsidian hair; as the mild wind above them stirred golden branches, Galadriel tenderly brushed against her skin, braiding the growing silver locks.

"I know of your suffering," the elf lady said. "But never it is a reason to give in for a temporary relief."

Minerva grasped her moving hands — still they lay against her neck. Fingertips rested under the veil of raven as the witch sighed longingly into the night.

"You don't know how it feels," she said — her first words since sunset. "It has never happened to you."

"Indeed," Galadriel whispered behind her, her hands trailing back into Minerva's hair. "Perhaps you could introduce me to the nature of your ache."

"I let it manipulate me so I wouldn't feel," the witch replied in thought. The pure blades of grass shifted against her palms, her eyes closed in silence. "Wouldn't endure the pain that was given to me… not only the hidden one, the heartache, — but the physical one moreover. I only wish … That I could— I could…"

Her words hung between them as a severe trouble within her mind and tongue. Minerva felt her throat grow dry as she trailed softly — dry as the ash of her burning soul.

"Bring him back…" Galadriel pondered.

"Forget him."

"He is yet immensely dear to your heart — you love him. You shan't forget of him."

"I  _should_ ," Minerva grunted under her breath. "Torment and scars is what he left. That  _isn't_ love."

Galadriel shook her golden head sadly. "Trust in time to heal your wounds."

"I'd rather trust a curse."

Her delicate palms lay upon Minerva's stiff shoulders, gently kneading through the tension within her muscles. "The spell upon you shall leave damage behind."

"None of you have noticed, but I have forevermore been damaged."

Her obsidian eyes fluttered open as inquisitive fingers travelled to linger against the emerald clasp of her cloak.

"If you seek oblivion, I may relieve you of your physical ache," Galadriel murmured lightly. "Perhaps a temporary freedom of all is not what you need, but my hands would suit you exceptionally greater than the all shading curse."

Minerva closed her colourless eyes in answer to her words — her senses merely focused upon the tingling sensation of her raven hair being shifted across her shoulder. Fabric against fabric slid as the clasp gave in under elf's fleeting touch, gentle and yet demanding.

"Resist the temptation, Minerva." Her words stung her sensitive hearing as a shiver ran down her constrained, stiff spine. "Let go of it."

She did.

And the pain within her came crashing down — her tensed shoulders slumped, head bowed in defeat, eyes closed, emerald anew.

But Minerva could feel her contact — quenching the flame that licked the only scar upon her weary frame. The mark on skin that shielded her spine still shattered, where Elrond had dared to let an arrow rest, where she would be forever signed.

Minerva let a single sound escape past her thinly pressed lips; Galadriel's fingertips ran down her curved spine for a shortest of moments as she sighed into the moonless night. Thrilling — that's what it all was, what Galadriel's whole persona was, how Minerva felt as her head insensibly leaned back, as she found herself staring at the sky of nothing but stars.

Thrilling.

The lady of light worked on the tunic, fastened with obsidian plates of copper, and as one by one they were undone, Minerva could only lean back further into Galadriel's gentle touch.

"Does every guest has a privilege of this sort?"

A light hum sprang through Minerva's own body as the woman behind her laughed — as bells of gold it rang in her ears, sweet and tempting. Her voice was gone the moment the material of her colourless tunic glided down from her porcelain shoulders; nothing was forbidden to Galadriel — neither the web of her mind nor the form of her scars.

' _Give up what could easily corrupt you,'_ the woman entered Minerva's mind. _'And I shall heal your wounds.'_

Her fingertips ran against her bare back as the gentle hum of wind blew at the two figures who remained unseen from the all-consuming eyes of gods and sacred evil.

Galadriel's gentle touch revived her soul, cured the ache of her wounds, and thus, Minerva could at last let herself feel safe — only if for a single night, even if she would never feel anything like the spell of the person behind her, Minerva felt secure.

* * *

"Do you not trust me, Minerva?" Galadriel asked. "Even after all of our nightly gatherings?"

"I wouldn't call them that," the witch said with an invisible smile.

"The mirror is yours to gaze." Her hand gripped Minerva's shoulder a bit tighter. "It is only a choice you can make."

As her golden-haired head nodded at her lightly, the shade of her emerald eyes adjusted, a spark of curiousity was ignited.

"Do not fiddle with my trust," Minerva spoke, before Galadriel moved aside. "I come to a conclusion that another betrayal would be the end of me."

"Oh, never would I mislead you, dear."

Within a step, her vision was filled with the same dimness of the forest, lurking above. When the image changed and galaxies flew within a second, Minerva lightly gripped the edge of the silver mirror.

Saruman's eyes appeared, blind to all and empty, staring at her from under a veil of crimson across his skin. Lifeless he was, snow-white robes torn by a silver blade of a sword, lay he on the wilted grass that the battle-ground was. And Minerva's crystal tears washed his illuminated form, her cloak of fiery red shielding them both from the raging battle, from the darkness of Mordor ahead.

A glass, filled with nothing but gold — the curse of her, the fall of the fearless Minerva McGonagall. Crystal she held in her hand, strands of raven cascading down her shoulders, garbed in fur of white. Her eyes — two coals, proving Minerva's inability to resist Voldemort's curse, inability to cope with it all.

The vision after seized Minerva by her throat, her breath and words were gone — it took her by pure bewilderment.

Her hair, sliced not to even reach her shoulders, sprawled on a metal frame, white as snowflakes, contrasting with the rust of the bed of torture. Arms shackled, legs restrained — eyes white, frozen, insane. Blood splashed across her porcelain face, scalpel sliced her bruised skin. Light blinded her vision, the bright figure above her, washed in her own blood, hovered mysteriously, drawing out a laugh at her lifeless expression.

' _Silence shall only make it worse, Validhreniel.'_ His voice rang in her ears — familiar, yet distant.

The scenery changed — Minerva found herself trembling involuntarily.

She now gazed at herself, standing in a field of raging battle. White hair billowing in the wind, torn cloak of crimson hanging from her shoulders. A metal hand held the ring of power within its grasp — Minerva had conquered them all. She had lost her arm, but she defeated evil, crushed its roots to nothing.

Námo. The lord of death held her in his arms, her own limbs dangling above ground as he carried her away from dust and smoke. With closed eyes she lay still, a crown of flowers upon her snowy head, a tie of crimson around her arm, an incomplete list of death upon her skin.

Never again would she open her colourless eyes.

A white wolf between trees of forest flashed before her, then the final vision washed it all away.

Fire, flaming high above, clouds of ashes rising into the dim sky. Flashes of green crossed the air, bodies lay forgotten across the battlefield. Hogwarts burned in agony, a sign of death above their heads, laughing at the lost innocence. Screams, blood, and laughter. The last thing she gazed at was the Dark Lord himself — sat he upon a throne, smiling at her horrified expression.

' _Give in, Minerva. It's all over.'_

The silver water cleared. Minerva straightened herself slowly, and sighed. As Galadriel's arms wrapped around her gently, she let herself have a moment of weakness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it. See you soon!


	11. I'm sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir and Minerva are friends of kind. But will they stay that way with a certain ring between them?

"Alas, my dear friends, but it is time for us to part," Galadriel said with a tingle of sadness in her voice. "But before we do, I shall give you gifts that will always remind you of Lothlorien."

The fellowship lurked in a line, awaiting the inevitable depart.

"To each of you I give a cloak, which shall protect you from unfriendly eyes and the coldness of the weather," she said, and elves handed a cloak to each member of the group. Minerva declined politely.

"Never before have we clad strangers in the garb of our own people," Lord Celeborn added as they put them on.

Both lords of Lothlorien gifted each of the travellers — a gesture of favour. Aragorn was glad to receive a sheath to fit his sword and a brooch of crystal. Boromir, Merry, and Pippin were given belts and daggers for the long journey. Legolas got a bow, if well-aimed it could surpass any other, and a quiver of sharp arrows. Gimli's gift was a remarkable one — three golden hair from Galadriel's head. Sam chose a bundle of elven rope, and the ring-bearer received a high in worth gift — the light of Eärendil, their most beloved star.

"Minerva," Galadriel intoned, coming to a stop before her. "You shall bring it back."

Her breath hitched in her throat when the woman took her hand and gently wrapped a crimson band around it. And as their eyes met together, Galadriel put on a ring of white gold upon her finger.

"I know of Elrond's gift for you." Her fingertips softly touched the ring of blue stone, resting on the finger beside. "Use them wisely."

Minerva shook her head lightly as Galadriel handed her a bow. "I can't take it."

"You will not harm those around you," she answered, thrusting it into her hand. "You shall see it."

Hesitating, Minerva threw the newly-made quiver over her shoulder.

"Until your powers return, use it." Galadriel let her hand rest on her cloaked shoulder. "Perhaps there is anything else your heart desires?"

She only smiled in return. "Thank you. For all."

"Do not give into darkness," the elf lady said with a mirrored expression. "And we shall meet again."

Minerva bowed her head as Galadriel ran her hand against her cheek — a goodbye. One last time she met a pair of blue eyes and then she turned away, slowly striding towards the river.

' _You shall be always awaited here, Minerva,'_ the elf entered her mind one last time.  _'May luck be ever in your favour.'_

She could force herself to glance back. Neither could she answer.

Silver boats floated against the light stream of the pale river, gently waving as the flower petals in the current of wind. Clear of anything the sky above was — rain, thunder, snow or fire — nothing would stop the determined fellowship of the ring.

Minerva jumped into one of the silver rafts, shed her weapons, settled between the wooden frame. Her eyes caught the sight of Legolas helping Gimli — both of them got closer in the past few week than they let on. Aragorn huddled in a boat with two of the hobbits, Sam and Frodo. Boromir smiled at Pippin and Merry.

It was a great opportunity, to sit alone. She could always turn around, or disappear. And perhaps she will —

"Can I be with you?"

Her head turned to the right slowly.

"Peregrin…" Minerva trailed.

"I can only talk to you about it," he said.

She winced lightly. "I'm sorry, but—"

"Please," he whispered. "I can't sleep at night."

Minerva may regret all of her decisions, but minutes after she pushed off the coast with Pippin lurking before her.

* * *

"He told me I should be glad," Pippin mumbled.

Minerva shrugged lightly. "I don't see a reason why."

He nodded offhandedly.

Her arms tensed against the light breeze as the boat continued to sway in the light motion of the shining river. Emerald eyes gazed sideways — for a single moment, barely a second, Minerva noticed a white spot between the darkness of trees. But a blink after the woods were as dim as ever.

"How did you feel?" Peregrin intoned. "When you died?"

"Peaceful. Every time I lost a life I felt almost glad."

He sighed with a heartbroken expression. "I was afraid."

"Because you weren't ready."

His eyes shot upwards. "You knew you would die?"

She shook her head in a dragged motion. "I  _hoped_ for it."

He didn't dare to question her words.

"Peregrin…" Minerva squeezed out as he darted at her.

She sighed against his golden curls as he clung at her tightly, heavily breathing into her shoulder.

"I'm sorry for taking away your life," he whispered. "I don't deserve it."

Minerva smiled. "You'll understand just why I would never regret giving it to you."

Tears soaked the fabric around her. Her fingers gently combed through his hair, calming and soothing.

"Thank you," he spoke through sobs. "Thank you for saving me. For helping us."

Through the gnawing feeling in her throat, Minerva found her words stuck deep inside.

* * *

Minerva shot straight up from her restless sleep, trembling against the heat of the night. With a sigh she lay down on the creaking boards of wood — the swaying boat wasn't one of the most comfortable substitutes of bed.

A fortnight. Ten days of travelling, of silence, of water. But a few hours ago they had swam past the Argonath — they almost reached their crossroad.

Without awaking the hobbit nestled beside her, Minerva rose from the boat.

She wandered through the dim forest without counting hours that had passed — her mind was clear, her eyes were blind. Minerva missed harmony. And even now, as her hand slowly reached for her dagger hidden under her cloak, she desired peace.

Within a turn she let it cross the air — it sunk into the depths of a hoary trunk. There sat a wolf; white as snow, almost palpably menacing, with eyes of crystal blue. Yet again, within a blink of her eyes it was gone.

Odd.

At the same moment the surprise wore off, Minerva took an unsure step forward and pulled out her dagger. She closed her emerald eyes and with a sigh leaned her forehead against the cold wood. Without a second thought she turned around and collapsed against the tree, drawing her knees to her chest.

Bright red hair. Irises mere pools of crimson. Crown of diamonds.

The same man of her nightmares now strode towards her.

"Minerva?" he broke the silence. "I was looking for you. I'm afraid you have already forgotten about me."

"Leave me be."

"I don't think it's possible."

Minerva gripped her dagger tighter and slowly rose. Again. Again she felt darkness choke the common sense within her. And she whacked the one before her with the handle of her knife.

Ignoring his attempts of speech, Minerva tackled him onto the damp soil. After she let her dagger slice his face, the sole of his boot smashed against her shoulder. As her arm convulsed in spasms of throbbing pain, her chest crushed the branches below.

" _Get off me_ ," she hissed with a turn, elbowing his face.

Her fingers found her dagger — with a single leap Minerva was upon the man. And just as quickly her instinct-controlled rage faded away.

A curse slipped involuntarily from her lips — the shadow of obsidian passed away from her emerald eyes. She gripped her own arm tighter, burning and pulsing without respite, as she straddled Boromir's larger form. "Great," she whispered, regarding his bleeding face. "Great," Minerva repeated as she rolled off him, cursing in between her chanting. "Just great," she said one last time, her tongue dull against her teeth. And although she could feel his astonishment, his grey eyes still shone with concern and pity.

"It's the ring," he said as he sat up; silence accompanied his words. "It changed you, too… I have noticed how you never sit nearby Frodo, how you never even touch him. I do the same. Just to… resist the temptation. I don't want to harm him. I don't want to harm  _anyone_. I'm afraid — afraid to become… a monster. A murderer."

"It's not  _that_ bad." Minerva flashed him an emotionless smile. "I became a monster. I also pushed you in harm's way.  _Again_."

"I understand." Boromir's fingers brushed away his own blood. "I don't have a right to be mad at you." He sighed into the night and then, to her surprise, smiled. "But when the following disappearance of yours will cause worry,  _Aragorn_  will be the one to find you. I wouldn't stand another punch of yours."

A light, heart-warming laugh tore through the stillness of the woods.

For minutes gentle wind stroked her bare skin as they sat, mind swaying between reality and imagination. It was only a matter of time, really, before one of them would slice the other one in half. A complete waste of friendship.

"I'd like to make a deal with you," she intoned later, when blood had dried completely on both his and her hands. "Just between us."

He turned his head at her general direction with curiosity written across his expression.

"Murder me if I ever try to take the ring from Frodo," Minerva took his hand. "I need your word."

He nodded. Boromir understood — one of them would eventually get loose. And this world didn't need yet another threat to consume all within it. "Only if you will return the favour," he said. "Don't let me harm anyone."

"You have my word."

"And you have mine."

* * *

Minerva felt her throat grow dry as her fingers softly touched the sharp string of her bow. Her emerald eyes, damp with tears of rage that would never fall, closed in anguish — she regretted her decisions, her promises. She would never forgive herself.

"If you would but lend me the ring—" Boromir insisted lightly.

Frodo took an unsure step back. "No."

"Why do you recoil?" The man dangerously closed on the boy. "I am no thief."

_Don't let me harm anyone._ His words still echoed in her ears — washed with blood, fallen under a wave of her own throbbing heartbeat. Minerva forced herself to draw her bow —  _it couldn't end like this._ She would never forgive herself.

"You are not yourself!" Frodo called out. Not that Boromir could understand him — the ring, it had consumed him. There was no other choice.

"What chance do you think you have?" The Gondorian man spat. "They will find you… they will take the ring… And you will beg for death before the end!"

_Don't be a fool, Boromir,_ she prayed,  _let him go._

"YOU FOOL!" he roared in rage.

With the swiftness of her animagus form, Minerva aimed at the man who tackled Frodo. Exhaling, she let her sharp arrow cross the air.

The shouts melted into silence. But it was only a warning shot. She couldn't do it yet.

Boromir slowly rose — and left the ringbearer alone, fortunately. Minerva knocked another arrow into her bow.

"Get out, Frodo," she said, aiming at Boromir's distorted face. "Find Aragorn." He did.

Galadriel shouldn't have given her the damn bow. Minerva shouldn't have promised. She should have stopped him from coming here. But it was too late now — it was him or her.

"You wouldn't shoot me, Minerva, would you?" Boromir inquired, raising his arms in defense. "I'm not your enemy."

But his gaze had changed. "You're not," she said. "But I will not hesitate to shoot you if I'm wrong."

"You would never hesitate to kill me," he hissed. "You wouldn't hesitate to kill  _anyone_." Leaves crunched under his feet as he took a step closer. "You don't have the only thing that makes us humans,  _witch_. You are heartless, Minerva McGonagall. You aren't capable of loving, of understanding. You don't know what  _mercy_  is."

"Don't make me do this, Boromir," Minerva answered. "Even though I am missing a heart, I'm giving you a final warning."

"Don't make me laugh, monster," he said. "You can shoot me  _right now_. You have no soul, you won't feel guilt."

"Oh." She let another arrow fly. "I believe you."

The man howled as the metal head sliced the apple of his cheek. A feather light touch.

He flew at her; she at him, swinging her bow. As she looked into his darkened eyes, Minerva knew there was no other choice — her or him.

It all slowed down as her bow slipped from her hands — Minerva tumbled onto the ground with a cry. Searing pain tore through her hip; it became hard to even breathe, and for a moment her mind was a mere haze of darkness. "You bastard!" she barked as Boromir grabbed her by her ankles; he pulled her further back from her bow. Then her boot made an unpleasing contact with his face.

Minerva crawled away and drew her wand; her powers had grown thin over the weeks, but all she could put her mind on was the man stumbling behind her. Blood seeped into her torn clothes and she grasped her thigh in vain.

" _Expelliar—_ " she began, but the possessed man was upon her within a moment. His hands came around her bare neck — her breath hitched in her throat.

"The ring will be  _mine_ ," Boromir spat.

The crazed look behind his burning eyes — it terrified her to the roots of her being. But as his grip around her neck tightened, she could let herself overlook it — her lungs were smothering in her chest… She saw stars as her vision slowly faded… And then it dawned upon her — she let him harm someone.

A drop of crimson splashed against her growing blue skin — his blood. If only it took less than this to die. Less of this pain, of torture. But Minerva could rest, even with every tissue in her body flaming from the lack of air, — she had tried to stop him. She had simply failed. Who would blame her?

And as darkness finally overcame her sight, her flesh was released from his bruising grip.

Not only a minute had passed lying there, her name was already on his lips. "Minerva…" he called. And she heard him through the mist, but couldn't answer — his hands left damage behind. And as she coughed and choked on air until it felt as if her lungs would tear out of her chest, Minerva could still notice the white wolf behind his back.

When it was gone, she let herself take a breath — a very well earned one. It burned worse than pepper, eaten without caution; worse than the flaming wind of winter against bare skin. But she had to breathe. And she had to suffer.

A dark shadow washed before her unfocused vision — a roaring one. Orcs.

She couldn't speak a word, but Boromir had noticed the same issue within them. He fought foes off as Minerva pulled out and then threw the arrow in her thigh away as if nothing. An obsidian, poisonous arrow. She grabbed her sword and rose — blood drumming in her ears, flame licking her whole flesh —  _the rest of the fellowship_ ….

Slicing their way through the sounds and swords, they ran — stumbled, more like. Minerva could barely take a step without an occasional groan or clutch at her bleeding wound. In the following moments, neither of them dared to speak of what had happened.

"I'm sorry," Boromir only uttered as Minerva struggled to pull out her mask and smash it against her face. "Terribly sorry." And they ran again — as Minerva tried to inhale and change her identity, they stumbled to find the rest of their group.

She caught a brief glimpse of Merry's curls and Pippin's scarf. They stood defenceless. Until the other pair of wanderers jumped in action to help them — blood spilled on the emerald grass as creatures fell before their feet. The couple shielded the two hobbits with their bodies, fighting the foul creatures off.

Boromir blew on his white horn as enemies continued to swarm them without respite. It only attracted another wave of foes — the four of them were forced to back away.

A light breeze clouded Minerva's numb senses. Her ears caught the inaudible whirl of an arrow, crossing the thick with scents air. A collide of two objects was imminent — it was fate. And this time, she couldn't run.

Minerva silently clenched her jaw as the heart that once had its beat in her chest was shred into pieces. Oddly enough, the obsidian arrow never touched her. It missed.

As his fingers blindly grasped the black weapon, Boromir fell on his knees before her, gasping for air. Minerva's sword slipped from her hand as she stumbled back. Stones in the hands of the hobbits were thrown no more. Everything stilled.

Second arrow ripped his flesh. Then a third one. His white horn shattered into pieces.

Minerva observed screaming Pippin and how he trashed in orc's grip. The hobbits were gone and she merely stood still.

She eventually tackled an Uruk-hai in fury as it aimed at Boromir one last time. As Minerva slaughtered it — countless times her dagger sliced against its skin — her emerald eyes watered with salty tears.

"Boromir," she said, crawling. "Boromir…"

He was still alive as she reached him. For the sake of trying, Minerva pressed his oozing wounds.

"Miner-va," he breathed out. "It's alright."

She took off her porcelain mask just to face him. Her hands were covered in his blood — flowing without respite, draining the whole life from the lying man.

She couldn't help him.

"Save the hobbits…" he whispered, gripping her arms. "Leave me. It's no use."

"I can't." She choked on her breath. "Don't make me do this."

" _Leave me,"_  he insisted. "I know you are strong enough … to resist the ring… You are the hope — hope of this world.  _Their hope_."

Minerva lightly touched his cut cheek — the one her arrow hit — and felt a heating tear slip from her eye.

"You should be the one saving them," she whispered. "We'll meet in the halls of starlight… eventually."

"I'd rather not." He managed to squeeze out a smile.

With a final kiss to his forehead, she put on her mask and left his forever wounded figure. Tears still streamed down her hidden face as she sprinted with an occasional limp in her step.

Sweat formed behind the suffocating mask, blood, mud and tears drew ornaments of grief beside it. Minerva faltered through the forest, eyes blind, hands empty; she had left her sword, her bow… When she stumbled and fell one last time, Minerva sat limp on the golden ground. Tears consumed her and she gave into the curse gnawing her from the inside. She couldn't resist anymore.

And then the power of it was released within her — she jumped on her feet and ran yet again, faster and without any throbbing pain left. Blood boiled in her veins as the primal instincts rose from within her rage and spell clouded mind.

They didn't expect it — within a blink of her obsidian eyes she began slaughtering the back of their group. Her dagger worked its way through as she grunted in rage, spilling blood and screams within the golden forest, taking all she could to fulfil her hunger for revenge. Minerva chopped them, crushed them, threw across the air — and even when she seeded terrifying panic among them, she wasn't satisfied.

Minerva pulled apart the pair of Uruk-hai that held Merry and Pippin. Blood smearing all about her, she stood, gazing in their eyes and breathing as if every breath could be her last. And when the curse finally released her, she felt fear gripping every cell in her burning body — she became a monster. That's why none dared to attack her, none dared to even glance at her general direction. The animal within her had been set loose.

And her mask was gone.

She turned around to face the reminder of her foes — fifteen of them stared at her. Out of forty.

A sparkle of burning sun shone against the blade of her dagger as she raised it one last time. Her eyes were emerald again as she took a step forward, towards the creatures closing in on her. But the leader of the orcs roared a few words for the subordinates to refuse the idea of even touching her.

With a stifled groan she collapsed on her sturdy knee, clutching her bleeding thigh. The tip of the arrow was still in it. So was the poison.

Minerva tried to fight off the darkness trying to consume her — she couldn't pass out and nor could she become a monster. She tried to rise to her feet as Uruk-hai watched her in fear and caution.

To the irony of it all, her fears came true — she fell into deep slumber, with a roared curse in the distance.

With her last thought, she whispered an apology.


End file.
